


Honest Songs

by MDJensen



Series: Honest Songs/Distillery 'verse [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bilingual d'Artagnan, Captain d'Artagnan, Cats, Disabled d'Artagnan but not as a metaphor for his emotional problems I swear, Gascon, Gen, Horses, Kid Fic, Life on a farm, Plum brandy, also more plums, d'Artagnan has a lot of shit to work through but also a lot of love to help him work through it, domestic fluff like whoa, plums, post-war fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 75,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5168891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight years since he last saw his friends-- eight years since everything changed-- Captain d'Artagnan sets off to visit Aramis and Porthos at their distillery in the country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the fic was taken from an eponymous song by Noah Gundersen, the tone of which really reflects the tone that I was trying to capture in this story. It’s a brilliant song and I suggest you go take a few minutes to listen to it :)

The carriage hit a divot in the road, and d’Artagnan blinked awake. He pushed the curtains aside and peered out the window at the familiar landscape: rolling sun-soaked hills, cloudless blue skies. Young sunflowers blended into a blur of green and budding gold. Their fields gave way at length to a massive sea of lavender, and part of d’Artagnan wanted to call for a stop, throw open the door, and walk the last few leagues on his own.

He didn’t. He’d hired the carriage for a reason, after all.

And besides his leg, the familiarity here wasn’t entirely pleasant. For the first two decades of his life, of course, the southwest of France had meant his father’s farm in Gascony, his calm if slightly lonely childhood, the safety of monotony. More recently, though, the association had shifted. For a few years now this part of the country had mean endless campaigns along the Spanish border, no less lonely but far, far less safe.

And now he was here for a third reason entirely. D’Artagnan let the curtains fall closed against the sprays of green and purple, and leaned his forehead against the fabric as he was overcome, yet again, with the reality of it. He was going to see his friends again. After eight years and countless moments of fear that he would die before having this chance-- he was finally going to see them again.

He wasn’t nervous, exactly, because that would be silly. Still he felt the slightest bit sick, in a way that had nothing to do with the rhythm of the carriage’s wheels. Eight years ago he’d been their pup, their littlest brother. How different he would look to them now, a man in his thirties, wirier than ever from long hours and sparse rations, browner than ever from full days spent in the Spanish sun. Not to forget the hair, of course, shorn to better sew a bullet’s graze and never fully recovered from it.

Not to forget the leg, either.

Couldn’t forget the leg.

Rubbing it absently, d’Artagnan sank back in his seat and wondered what his friends themselves would look like. Had Porthos begun to shrink at all? Was Aramis completely grey-haired by now? And then, of course-- what would _Athos_ look like?

Eight years later d’Artagnan was still recognizable, as he knew Porthos and Aramis would be as well. Athos was another story.

He must have drifted to sleep again, for he woke to the stopping of the wheels. There was no distillery in sight. Instead they were on the main road through a small village, and the driver was asking directions from a woman holding a basket on one hip. The name _d’Herblay_ filtered into the carriage proper, and d’Artagnan startled at it. Were Aramis and Porthos even Aramis and Porthos anymore, or were they René and Isaac-- and did Athos even know his own name?

He tried to push this all from his head. It was ridiculous, letting anxiety overshadow the joy of this reunion, and as the carriage began to roll again, d’Artagnan let himself think nothing but of the moment they would see each other again. He ran it through a dozen times. He ran it through so thoroughly that when the carriage pulled to a stop in front of a large blue farmhouse, d’Artagnan faltered, momentarily disbelieving that it all hadn’t happened yet.

He opened the door, let himself carefully out. The driver had already unloaded his trunk, and d’Artagnan paid and thanked the man, and then watched him drive away.

Feeling oddly abandoned, he turned back from the road. And there, before him, was Porthos.

He was grinning, looking so familiar and so real that d’Artagnan could only stare wordlessly at him. He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how long to look him in the eye anymore.

Then Porthos growled, disapproving of the hesitation. A split second later his arms were around d’Artagnan, gripping him fiercely; d’Artagnan fell against him, hugging back just as hard.

“It is fuckin’ _good_ t’see you,” Porthos muttered. “Good as anythin’. Lord, I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” d’Artagnan whispered, beginning to pull away.

Porthos only squeezed him tighter. “Hey, we ain’t done yet! Eight years, it’s been? Eight fuckin’ years. You owe me a damn long hug, pup.”

Surrendering to it, d’Artagnan rubbed his cheek against Porthos’ shoulder and closed his eyes. Against all odds, this feeling was utterly familiar. Scores of leagues from Paris, nearly a decade after they’d last breathed the same air, Porthos felt like Porthos, thick and warm and solid. D’Artagnan ran a hand across his back. His shirt was soft and worn; he was dressed as a farmer now, in loose earthy linens and a singular belt, but beneath the fabric his broad muscles had not diminished. Even the smell was not completely different. Less gunpowder, yes, and a great deal more hay, but under that something still musky and Porthos-y.

At once d’Artagnan felt twenty-three again. At once he was again the young man, barely more than a boy, who had stood at the edge of the garrison and watched two horses and three passengers ride off down the cobbles. For a moment he thought he might cry. That boy, Porthos’ pup, he would have-- he _had_ \-- but in the end d’Artagnan was not that boy any longer, no matter how he felt. So no tears came. Instead he squeezed one final time and pulled away, then chuckled a little to see that Porthos had shed enough tears for the both of them.

“Sorry,” Porthos huffed. But in that marvelous way of his, he didn’t really seem to mean it. He shook his head, dried his face on his sleeve. “Christ, you look good. I like the hair; didn’t realize you’d kept it so short.”

“Oh, yeah.” D’Artagnan ran his hand through it self-consciously. “Just got used to it, I guess. It’s longer than it’s been in a while now.”

“I like it,” Porthos repeated-- and then they were hugging again, and d’Artagnan did not mind at all. Hugging was the easiest part of this, he decided. Somehow when they were looking each other in the eyes and actually conversing, he felt awkward and strangely off-balance; with his face pressed to Porthos neck he felt safe and steady.

“I’m not so sure about it.” A third voice joined the conversation, and d’Artagnan wrenched himself away to see Aramis before them. “It makes your neck look very slender. Porthos is just so excited to see you, I think he’d compliment you if you’d taken to an English wig.”

“And you aren’t that excited to see me?”

“Not enough to abandon all sense of fashion,” Aramis sniffed, though he was wearing an outfit nearly identical to Porthos’ own, only with a dusty red shirt as opposed to a light green.

“I can see that,” d’Artagnan teased, and then Aramis grinned and stepped up to him, and slung his arms casually around d’Artagnan’s shoulders. Their hug was looser, but no less of a comfort. When they finished, Aramis let d’Artagnan step back but kept ahold of his elbows; he scanned him critically, head-to-toe. D’Artagnan tried not to cow beneath the scrutiny. But still he felt a swell of relief as Aramis nodded approvingly, saying only, “some decent meals and a good night’s sleep ought to do it.”

Honestly, d’Artagnan felt better already, just for being near them.

“Where’s, eh-- where’s--” but then, all at once, the awkwardness was back. This, d’Artagnan was wholly unprepared for. He didn’t even know which name to use, let alone what to expect of the man himself. But his friends seemed to understand this.

“Olivier’s around here somewhere,” Aramis replied, gently emphasizing the name. “He’s been dying to meet you but we weren’t sure when your carriage would be arriving. So we’ve made him do his chores as usual.”

Porthos had already seized his trunk, and nodded towards the house. “We’ll get this inside, then we’ll show you around. We’ll run into him before too long. Unless you needa rest--?”

And here it was: Porthos’ eyes, flicking to his leg. “It’s all right,” d’Artagnan replied, trying not to sound defensive. “I should stretch it anyway. And I could carry that, you know.”

“Don’t,” Porthos replied, firmly. “I ain’t takin’ this ‘cause I think you can’t. I’m takin’ it ‘cause you’re my friend and I ain’t seen you in eight years an’ I wanna carry your trunk for you.”

Giving in, d’Artagnan smiled, and trailed then up the lawn.

The main house of the distillery was bigger than d’Artagnan had expected, built of brick and with real glass in the windows. Aramis opened the door, and they entered. The room they stepped into was a kitchen, with an oven in the corner, a generous worktable until the window, and a dining table with four chairs in the center. Garlic and drying herbs hung from the rafters.

“The kitchen,” Aramis noted. “Not much to say.” D’Artagnan didn’t completely agree; in fact it was a charming space, and he felt himself wanting to know the history of every meal ever cooked and eaten in it, every empty jar drying by the window, every ding in the wood of the table.

“The sitting room is through here,” Aramis directed, and moved them into the next room. Porthos disappeared through one of the two doors that led off opposite sides of this new space. An unlit fireplace was directly before them. Two long benches and a few chairs lined the walls, one of which had three more windows, and a large set of shelves filled one corner. It was here that d’Artagnan found himself drawn.

There were mostly books, a few dozen in various states of wear, but there were also a few bottles and vases, a clock, and two framed drawings, one of a horse and one of a plum tree with a basket of plums beside it.

Porthos returned then. “So, what d’ya think?”

“I think it’s fantastic,” d’Artagnan replied, and his voice came out a little raspy. Must have been under the weather from days of travel. 

“Through there is the washroom,” Aramis explained, indicating a door in the windowed wall. “Not terribly exciting. And through there are the bedrooms.” He pointed to a door on the opposite side. “Shall we?” D’Artagnan nodded, peeled away from the shelves.

The door led to a hallway with a window at the close end and a door at the other, with three doors leading off it in between. Porthos nodded to the closest door. “That’s mine,” he said, and d’Artagnan smiled. Nearly a decade in retirement and Porthos was still standing guard. “Aramis’ is the third down, and Ollie’s is between us. Yours is at the end.”

“Mine?”

“The guest room, if you prefer,” Aramis amended, but Porthos pulled a face. 

“Don’t pretend,” he scolded, and d’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to hug them both again. They were trying so hard to make him feel welcome-- not that he’d expected any different.   
Porthos led them to the guest room and they stepped inside. It was surprisingly large, as had been the whole house so far, d’Artagnan realized that while he’d thought of his friends as eeking by the way he and his father had, in fact they were doing quite well. He smiled. 

“Like it?” Porthos prompted. “I put your trunk by the bed.”

D’Artagnan nodded, still taking everything in. There was a bed with a yellow quilt spread over it, a chair by the window, a writing desk, and a bureau with a vase set on top of it. 

“It’s-- a house,” d’Artagnan marveled, sounding maybe a little more awed than he should have. “It’s a nice house?”

“We’re fairly fond of it,” Aramis agreed. “Would you like to try the bed or go on with the tour?”

“Tour,” d’Artagnan breathed. His friends led him back out the path they’d followed in, and then they were out of doors again. They circled to the back of the house.

The lawn swelled up into a hill with a massive tree atop it; a swing hung from a sturdy branch. Off to the left of the hill was another brick building. “That’s the distillery proper,” Aramis explained. “And over there’s the barn.” Another, equally large wooden building, was a little behind the distillery. “And then there’s the orchard. Oh. And there’s Ollie.”

D’Artagnan’s heart missed a beat. 

Coming down from the barn was a little figure, no more than waist high, dressed in brown trousers and an off-white shirt, topped off by a flop of golden blonde hair. D’Artagnan felt frozen as Olivier-- as Athos-- came towards them. 

And then he was standing before them, with a calm, polite smile but honest glee in his eyes. He stuck out a little hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Monsieur d’Artagnan. Papá and Uncle Porthos have been telling me stories for years.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop staring. Eight years ago, as a baby, he had looked like-- well-- a baby, unformed and nondescript, his only notable feature a fleshy split up his lip. Now he looked like Athos. 

Now he looked like Athos. 

Now his face was round and freckled, eyes sharp and blue. His hair was fairer, beard naturally absent, and skin glowing with the rosiness that never lasted into manhood-- and still, Athos. 

D’Artagnan wanted to cry. He wanted to pick him up and hug him until he was blue in the face but also, inappropriately, he wanted to scream at him. He _couldn’t_ be Athos--

But he was. 

Only when those beloved pale eyes saddened a little did d’Artagnan finally snap himself out of it and shake the boy’s hand. “Olivier,” he rasped. “I’m very glad you meet you as well. I’m sorry. I suppose I’ve been picturing you in my head for so long that seeing you for myself took me by surprise.” 

Olivier’s smile brightened again, and this time d’Artagnan noticed a few missing teeth. “I’m a little surprised too. Did you have a nice trip from Paris?”

“Very nice,” d’Artagnan replied, hearing a hollowness in his own words that echoed the missing pieces inside himself.

Aramis cut in then. “Shall we see the distillery, then? If your leg is up for it? We’ll save the orchard for last.” D’Artagnan nodded. He couldn’t quite sort out the hundred things happening inside his head just then, but-- for once-- it left no room to feel the ache of his leg.

The tour went on. Aramis narrated the history of the distillery, then the barn, then the orchard. Olivier beamed, adding his own cheery commentary. Porthos, on the other hand, clearly sensed d’Artagnan’s unease, and did not take his eyes from him once-- in much the same way d’Artagnan did not once take his eyes from Olivier, and heard next to none of the words.

They ended in the orchard, down beneath the hill. Surrounded by a fresh, mild wind and the budding plum trees, d’Artagnan finally began to feel a little calmer, and curiosity about Olivier began to overtake shock.

“You know, I grew up on a farm too, Olivier,” he said. All at once he realized that he hadn’t spoken in more than grunts of acknowledgement for some time now, and he felt a little self-conscious as all eyes turned on him.

Olivier smiled. “Papá and Uncle did tell me. But it was a proper farm, wasn’t it? Not a distillery?”

“Mm-hm. We grew oats and barley, mostly, and raised hogs, but we had some gardens too. I loved tending them best, I think. What do you do around here?”

Olivier did not seem much more comfortable with attention than Athos had been, but at the same time he still seemed fairly thrilled by d’Artagnan’s presence-- why, d’Artagnan did not know. “I see to the milking and collecting the eggs every morning. And after harvest, Uncle Porthos and I make all the jams. I’m old enough to study now, too. I’m reading harder and harder books in French and Spanish now, and soon I’ll start Latin. Oh, I look after the cats as well!”

D’Artagnan was _charmed_.

“Later you should introduce them all,” Porthos suggested. His surveillance had eased up as d’Artagnan’s anxiety had, but he still kept watch out of the corners of his eyes. “Maybe they’ll like him more’n they like me.”

“The cats don’t like Uncle Porthos very much,” Olivier related, suddenly serious. “And he doesn’t like them very much. They make him sneeze.”

“They do.”

“It can wait until after supper, _hijo mío_ ,” Aramis replied. D’Artagnan glanced up at the sky, realized it had to be getting on five or six now. “Why don’t you come help me get everything on the table? D’Artagnan, we’ll eat in half an hour or so, if you’d like to rest a little while first.”

D’Artagnan nodded, and then Aramis and Olivier went off, back up the hill; left alone with Porthos, d’Artagnan let himself slump a little. A warm hand settled on his shoulder.

“How’re you doin’? It’s a lot, innit?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I knew,” he rasped. “I knew but I didn’t know.” All at once his mind was filled with the memory of that night. Rochefort dead, Aramis resigning, their celebration-cum-farewell gathering interrupted by the delivery of a bottle of wine--

“It’s the freckles that get me the most,” Porthos chuckled. “He always had freckles, y’know, but a grown man’s ruddy enough you don’t really see ‘em, yeah? And Ollie’s jus’ _splattered_ with ‘em.”

D’Artagnan nodded, debated a moment before asking his next question, then asked it anyway.

“Do you still see him as Athos? When you look at him, I mean, is that what you think of?”

\-- _Athos drinking first, crying out in surprise_ \--

“Not all of the time, but once in a while. More’n Aramis, I think, at any rate.”

\-- _Aramis rushing forward, scooping the wrinkled infant from the floor, from the pile of Athos’ clothes_ \--

“I think most days he really just feels like his father. ‘specially now it’s been so long. But you know, he always wanted kids so much, it came faster to him. Me, I spent the first year changin’ his diaper and thinkin’ how he used to be the finest swordsman in France. Not that he didn’t soil himself now an’ then as Athos, too.”

D’Artagnan pressed a hand to his forehead. He was exhausted, from the carriage ride and all the walking and seeing Porthos and Aramis again, and _Olivier_ , and when the familiar hand touched his back again, he heaved out a sigh.

“You’ve had a long day,” Porthos murmured. “Why don’t you walk the orchard for a li’l while before you come up? It always calms me down.”

“All right.”

“Good. Stew’s been cookin’ since this mornin’, and I think Aramis made a cake as well.” Porthos squeezed his shoulder, then took his hand away. “D’Artagnan, it’s-- it’s really good seein’ you again, pup. I hope you’re stayin’ a while.”

D’Artagnan had no response to that, but Porthos left then anyway.                  

Alone, he wandered the rows of trees in slow steps, letting his limp show itself freely, trying to stretch the knotted muscles of his calf, trying not to wish for the cane he’d stubbornly left back in Paris. When it seemed that thirty minutes or so had passed, he made his way back up the hill to the main house.

Opening the door to the kitchen revealed a more domestic scene than he’d ever anticipated catching any of his friends in: cheery candles supplemented the slowly fading sunlight, and on the table were four bowls of stew and four cups of water.

“Hello, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Olivier chirped, as d’Artagnan stepped in. He was already seated at the table, a worn little reader open next to his bowl. Porthos, barefoot, was slicing bread with a long knife. Aramis was sprinkling powdered sugar over a large cake, which filled the room with a sweet, buttery scent.

D’Artagnan sank into a chair. Porthos carried a plate of bread to the table, held it out to d’Artagnan and then Olivier, who took a slice each and dipped them into their stew. Aramis wiped sugar from his hands and he and Porthos sat.

A few minutes of prayer later they were tucking in, and d’Artagnan found himself absolutely ravenous, hungrier than he’d been in recent memory and contented to tear through his first and second bowl of stew without a shred of self-consciousness. Porthos laughed, filling his bowl and d’Artagnan’s own with a third serving. After dinner they ate cake, which was spicier than the scent would suggest, sharp with cloves and cinnamon and absolutely delicious.

With the sun sinking low, they all sat back, fully satisfied. Aramis rose, procured a bottle of brandy and poured three healthy cups; “to friendship”, he toasted, and they all raised their drinks while Olivier raised his water.

After dinner they moved to the sitting room. Aramis lit the fire, then settled on one bench, with Porthos; Olivier plopped down on the opposite bench beside d’Artagnan, and spent a solid half-hour mining for details about city life. Through it all, though, he was nothing if not respectful. He asked nothing personal, seemingly more curious about what d’Artagnan ate for dinner in Paris and what time his neighbors rose, and if a question ever seemed too much, he quickly amended it.

D’Artagnan answered them dutifully. Even better was what came next, when Olivier began to prattle on more about life at the distillery, leaving d’Artagnan free to close his own mouth and simply enjoy the sound of his voice.

Perhaps an hour after supper, though, he went abruptly silent. They’d been discussing the cats, d’Artagnan getting a primer on their names before actually being introduced, when all of a sudden Olivier sat back and closed his eyes.

Aramis sprang into action, coming quickly and quietly to the boy’s side. “Are you seeing the lights, Olivier?”

D’Artagnan frowned, puzzled, but clearly this meant something to Olivier, who nodded and held out his arms. Aramis picked him up gently. “How’s your belly?” he asked, as he settled the boy against himself, head on his shoulder, legs straddling his hip.

“It’s fine,” Olivier murmured, sinking into Aramis’ arms.

“I bet you my boots this will just be a little one,” Aramis soothed, swaying lightly; Olivier smiled.

“You still owe me your hat from the last time you were wrong, Papá.”

“Well, I’m waiting until it fits you, _hijo mío_.”

Olivier pressed his face against Aramis’ chest. “Please tell Monsieur d’Artagnan that I’m sorry I won’t be able to play with him,” he whispered. “I _did_ want to introduce the cats.”

Aramis smiled into Olivier’s hair. “Monsieur d’Artagnan will still be here tomorrow,” he reminded him. “You can show him after breakfast tomorrow, all right?”

“All right.”

“Good. Let’s get you to bed. You’ll sleep through the worst of it.” And with that, Aramis carried the child from the room, leaving d’Artagnan staring after them in no small amount of confusion. He turned to Porthos.

“He gets headaches.” Porthos was frowning deeply, and came to sit beside d’Artagnan. “Bad ones, ever since he was a baby. Has to stay in the dark when he’s got one-- no light, no noises, sometimes we can’t even touch ‘im.”

“And he knows when they’re coming?”

“Mostly, yeah. Few minutes before, he starts seein’ lights-- he says they’re like pale stars floatin’ around the room. Gives a little warnin’, at least. Sometimes they only last a few hours. We call those the _little ones_. But the _big ones_ , they can last a day or more, an’ he, eh-- they make ‘im throw up.”

“Christ. What causes them?”

“What brings ‘em on? Can be if he gets upset, or doesn’t eat enough, or changes in the weather. Or it can be absolutely nothin’. What _causes_ ‘em?” Porthos sighed. “Gotta assume it was somethin’ t’do with the change. Don’t remember Athos havin’ headaches like this. Although, it’d’ve been like him not to say.”

Porthos was fairly mopey after this, not that d’Artagnan blamed him. With a few grunted apologies, he smothered the fire and trumped off to bed, leaving d’Artagnan to head to the guest room and do the same. Fully clothed-- a soldier’s habit-- he lifted the quilt and crawled underneath. Despite the unfortunate and unexpected development of Olivier’s headache, he still felt calm and well-fed, and was unusually optimistic for a good night’s sleep.

It never came. An hour later he hauled himself back out of bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This damn thing. I’m breaking my own rule on this and beginning to post before the whole thing is completed, simply because it’s turning out so much longer than I had originally anticipated. Because of that I will be updating with slightly less frequency than I’ve done on other stories, but I still intend on posting at least one chapter a week. Things do also pick up a little after this first intro chapter. I hope you’ll all enjoy :)
> 
>  _hijo mío_ = my son (thanks to Roar for help with this!)
> 
> I'll speak more about the translations in this fic in a later chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some internalized ableism. I guess it should be noted that I am an able-bodied person, basing d’Art’s experience off that of a family member who grew up able-bodied and recently developed some serious, chronic problems with her legs. Please feel free to speak up if at any point I don’t handle the issue well.

Cursing his limp and the noisiness it caused, d’Artagnan made his way down the hall and back out the through the kitchen. There was a bench, backed up to the side of the house not far from the door. It was cool and damp, and the stars were brilliantly bright in the moonless sky; d’Artagnan sank onto the bench and stared up at them.

There was a special kind of frustration that came from sleeplessness. Sleep came only from an absence of thought, and at the moment his mind was moving at triple speed as though trying to recall an entire decade at the same time. His stomach was upset as well, which wasn’t helping matters. He’d wolfed down the flavorful supper without regard to how much richer it was than his typical soldier’s fare; a nasty bout of indigestion, it seemed, was to be the price for this carelessness. It was an uncomfortable-- and undignified-- reminder of how little he belonged here.

After some time the door creaked open; d’Artagnan startled and glanced up to see Porthos, wearing an unbuttoned sweater, shut the door gently and settle down beside him.

D’Artagnan bent forward, stared at the ground. “Sorry if I woke you. I can’t sneak as quietly as I used to.”

Porthos shrugged. “You didn’t wake me.”

“You weren’t sleeping?”

“In an’ out. I don’t sleep well when Ollie’s havin’ a headache. Mostly he wants Aramis when he’s sick. But if it gets too bad sometimes they need help, an’ I wanna be awake if they do, yeah?”

“Is it that bad this time?”

Porthos shook his head. “No. Thank God. He’s sleepin’, an’ more than likely it’ll be gone when he wakes up.”

“Good.” They sat together a little while in silence. Slowly, insidiously, that same awful awkwardness crept over them, and d’Artagnan spat out anything just to fill the silence.

“He wants Aramis when he’s sick? That’s kind of adorable.”

Porthos relaxed a little. “Yeah. Aramis when he’s sick, me when he’s scared. Always been that way. Good thing, too, ‘cause it fuckin’ kills me t’see him like that. Not that it’s easy on Aramis, either. We-- wanted so bad, for him to have a happy life, y’know?”

“I don’t think he doesn’t,” d’Artagnan replied immediately. “An uncle for when he’s scared. A father for when he isn’t feeling well.”

“An’ when he’s sad, we both sit with him. Hold one hand each.”

“Hard to imagine what he could ever be sad about here.”

“Thanks. Yeah. You know, there’s stuff you can’t stop, though. But so far he’s bounced back from all of it. We just sit with him, you know? And this one time, this one time, he reached out, and took our far hands, you know, the ones that were farther from him, an’ we asked him why an’ he said it was so we could hold hands too.”

“So did you?”

“‘course we do. Kid tells you somethin’ like that, you don’t say no. He loves sittin’ like that. Aramis an’ me holdin’ hands in his lap, and him reachin’ out sideways, holdin’ both.”

“Porthos, that sounds like a very happy life to me.”

“Maybe.” He heaved a sigh. “That’s what we decided, y’know? I mean, his childhood first time ‘round was fairly shit, I don’t need to tell you that. So this time, we figured-- y’know.”

“I’m really happy for you, Porthos,” d’Artagnan enthused, and Porthos pulled his sweater a little tighter and smiled again. Then d’Artagnan sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“You have such a lovely life here. I feel like I’m crashing into it.”

The smile faded, and Porthos frowned. “If you are, it’s ‘cause you were invited.”

“My first night here and already I’m being a terrible guest. Just-- years on the front lines then months in a hospital ward. I don’t think I remember how to wake and sleep like a person anymore.”

Porthos’ smile returned then, warm and wistful. “You don’t have to apologize for that, d’Artagnan. I know you came to see us. But you’re also here to rest.”

“Am I?”

“Aren’t you?”

D’Artagnan rubbed his leg absently. “If I am, I don’t think I remember how to do that either.”

They fell back into silence, though to d’Artagnan’s relief this one was far more comfortable. When he spoke again it was not in a rush, but because he needed to know something.

“What does Athos think? I mean, where does he think his mother is?”

“He thinks Aramis fell in love an’ got a woman pregnant. That they weren’t married, but they were gonna be. Then the woman died in childbirth.”

“But that’s so sad!”

“Which do you think hurts more,” Porthos prompted softly, “a parent who died lovin’ you or a parent who left you behind?”

This brought d’Artagnan back to himself a bit and, feeling the idiot, he reached up and rubbed Porthos’ back for a short moment. Porthos smiled, tipped his head a little bit towards d’Artagnan. “In any case,” he continued, when d’Artagnan pulled his hand away. “Aramis decided to take him out to the country, raise him like he’d been raised. An’ I was his friend an’ didn’t want him t’be alone, so I went with him. That’s as much of a story as we needed. An’ it’s half the truth at least.”

“He doesn’t question it?”

“Not really. When he was younger I don’t think he even realized. For the first two years, we lived with Aramis’ brother. He’s a widower, you know, only just remarried. Ollie didn’t have a mother; his cousins didn’t have a mother. Seemed the way of things to him, I suppose.” Porthos’ smile did not fade away, but it did temper a bit. “He asked maybe a year or two ago, if his mother had any family he could meet, or if there was anything of hers he could see. Dunno what brought it about. We told him she didn’t have much in the way of family, but we did give him a hairpin an’ told him it was hers. It was Aramis’ mother’s, actually. For a day or two he carried it around. Not so much after. Kids, you know.”

D’Artagnan nodded. Porthos’ eyes were droopy, and seeing the sleepiness on his friend’s face was only making him sleepier too. Porthos smiled knowingly.

“Listen, there’s a few hours yet til dawn. I’m gonna get back to bed. But if you need me, you come an’ get me. Yeah?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“Good. ‘night, d’Artagnan.”

“Goodnight, Porthos,” he breathed, and fell back against the house once again.

The next morning, his first at the distillery, d’Artagnan slept later than he meant to; sometime around sunrise he heard the cock crow but, having sat outside until the small hours of the night, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

When he woke again, around eight, he felt guilty for having done so. He changed his shirt, pulled on his boots, stopped by the washroom, then wandered out to the kitchen.

On the table was a plate of bread and a jar of jam. Starving again, despite the ill effects of overindulging at supper, d’Artagnan coated some bread with a healthy spoonful of what turned out to be plum preserves and finished it quickly. Then he went out of the house.

He saw nobody at first, but when he managed to struggle to the top of the hill and look out over the orchard, he spotted two familiar figures moving about the plum trees, pulling weeds from around their narrow trunks. Aramis was wearing a grey shirt today, and Porthos a pale yellow one. In plainer colors, and at a far enough distance to disguise fine wrinkles and silvering hair, they looked just as they had done ten years ago in Paris, and d’Artagnan, with nothing better to do, lowered himself to the ground and watched them a while.

“Good morning, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” a little voice called before too long. D’Artagnan craned around to see Olivier, coming down from the barn with a pail of milk nearly half his size. He pushed carefully to his feet.

“Good morning, Olivier,” he greeted, meeting him on the path. “Are you feeling better today?”

“Much better,” the boy replied. “I’m sorry about last night. I’ve been having headaches since I was a baby, you know. But sometimes I only need to sleep a while.”

“I’m glad.” D’Artagnan smiled. “Your father and uncle have been writing to me since you all came here, you know. They never mentioned your headaches.”

Olivier shrugged. “I don’t think they like to think about it. I think it upsets them more than it upsets me.”

“That’s parents, I suppose. Can I help you carry that?”

He needed, quite desperately, for Olivier to say yes, to treat him like someone a little stronger than a cripple. Olivier nodded. He handed over the pail, and together they walked it back up to the main house.

“I’m going to make butter,” Olivier announced, as d’Artagnan set the pail down by the table. “Would you like to sit with me?”

“I would. Thanks, Olivier,” d’Artagnan replied, and watched as the boy skimmed the top of the milk into a smaller pail and carried it back outside. Around the corner of the house, in its shadow, was a chair and a butter churn.

Oliver poured the cream into the churn, then waved d’Artagnan into the chair.

“No, it’s all right,” he insisted, souring a little. “You sit. You’re working.”

“I’m not tall enough to churn sitting,” Olivier replied-- and although he was suspicious for a moment, d’Artagnan quickly realized that this was true. He gave in and sat while Olivier churned.

They didn’t speak, then; Olivier worked the churn and d’Artagnan fought and mostly lost against the urge to stare right at him. At last Olivier paused, and let go of the handle.

“I don’t mind if you look at my lip.”

D’Artagnan startled at the boy’s words; his instinct was to protest that he hadn’t been, but this felt dishonest and somehow a little mean. He hadn’t been staring at the scar specifically. But it was certainly one of the features that his eyes kept returning to, one of the traits that cried out _Athos_.

“I was born with a split there,” Olivier explained. “Some people call it a harelip, because the devil takes the form of a hare and frightens your mother while you’re inside her, and that’s how you get it.”

He said this all very matter-of-factly, and d’Artagnan felt the once-familiar annoyance of not knowing if Athos was truly unfazed or merely pretending to be. “That sounds like a silly story to me,” he replied.

“I think so too.”

“People are born with little differences sometimes,” d’Artagnan remarked. “My father had nine fingers. Five on his right hand, as usual, but four on his left. One was big and fat, like two had gotten stuck together.” What he didn't voice was the way it felt when those differences were big, and acquired once life had already begun.

Olivier smiled a little at this. “It doesn’t bother me, really. Uncle Porthos knew a man who had a split too, but his went inside his mouth as well and made it hard for him to eat. That’s much harder to fix.”

“The last time I saw you, your lip hadn’t been sewn yet. Did your father sew it?”

Olivier shook his head. “He nearly had to. The first two surgeons he went to wouldn’t help me. But then he found a man who did.”

“Why wouldn’t they help?”

“They said I was touched by the devil. That I shouldn’t’ve lived in the first place.”

“That’s-- Christ, that’s terrible!”

“Papa and Uncle didn’t tell me for a long time, but when I got older I asked them to. I like to know the truth about things, even if it hurts a little.”

“I’m sorry I was looking at it,” d’Artagnan murmured. “Cross my heart, I don’t think anything bad about it. You can hardly even see it, really. It caught my eye because-- well, have Aramis and Porthos told you about a man named Athos?”

D’Artagnan’s stomach gave a little flop, a do-not-talk-about-that warning, but he did not take back the question. Olivier nodded. “He was friends with all of you. In the musketeers.”

“That’s right. Anyway, Athos had that same scar.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. Same side, too.”

“Did he have a split?”

“I suppose he must have. I mean, he never talked about it either way but I think at one point or another we all told each other about all the scars we’d gotten from fighting. He never mentioned being hurt there. So I don’t know what else it could have been.”

Olivier nodded, and when d’Artagnan said no more he went back to churning-- only to stop again a minute later. He observed d’Artagnan steadily. “You’re waiting to see if it really does bother me. If I am upset and I’m only trying to hide it.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“All right then.”

“Would you like to meet the cats now? I’ve fed them their milk already but they love a bit of butter.”

Feeling a little shaky now, knowing he should not have mentioned Athos, d’Artagnan nodded gratefully; he waited outside while Olivier brought most of the butter inside, then came back out with a little left in the pail.

D’Artagnan had been in the barn the day before, but hadn’t paid much attention. Now that he properly looked around it, it was less remarkable than the rest of the distillery-- a barn was a barn, after all-- but still it reminded him pleasantly of his childhood. Olivier stuck his fingers into the butter then lay down in a hay pile. Not a moment later there were ten or twelve barncats gathering around him, meowing happily and licking the butter with delicate tongues. Olivier grinned, petted their heads with his butterless hand.

“This is Sotty,” he introduced, nodding towards a big black cat. “It’s short for Sottises. She’s a mother, you know. That’s Soleil, and Duveteux, and that’s Treville--”

“Treville?” d’Artagnan snickered, glancing at the tawny cat that appeared to have a large brown mustache.

“Yes. Papá named him.”

“Do you know where that name comes from?”

Olivier shook his head.

“Nevermind, then.” Olivier accepted this, went on with introducing the rest; d’Artagnan noted the names but quickly lost track of which was which. Olivier’s fingers were licked clean by now. He scooped up the last of the butter and held his hand back out, taking care that the smaller cats who had gotten less the first time got more now.

When the butter was gone, they went back to the house. Porthos and Aramis were there already, and they and Olivier chatted about their mornings while Porthos broke the last of the bread into four pieces and passed them around. Then Aramis set to making supper. Olivier went into his room and came back with his reader, announcing his intention to go study on the swing.

Porthos glanced over at d’Artagnan and laughed. “I swear we work around here. Only it’s that in-between, y’know, right before summer hits. Less to do.”

“If you’ve nothing to do then go and visit the horses,” Aramis called, without turning around from the garlic he was mincing. “Olivier brushed them yesterday but Nuage hasn’t had a good run since Tuesday.”

Porthos chuckled again. “All right. Comin’, pup?”

On one hand he’d been feeling a bit restless for a while now; on the other, he hadn’t ridden since-- well. D’Artagnan did not voice either of these thoughts. Instead he stood and followed Porthos to the barn, where they fetched two saddles, then around back to the large enclosure where three horses were grazing.

A black cat darted in-between his legs. D’Artagnan kept his balance better than he would have expected, and bent down to pet its back, struggling for the right name. “Hello there-- eh, Soleil?”

“Nope. Soleil’s orange. Eh-- it might be Sotty? They aren’t my favorite manner of beast.” Porthos crouched down and called the cat over; it reared up and placed its paws on Porthos’ knee. Porthos scratched its ears for a moment-- then sneezed an ungodly sneeze. The cat startled, and scurried away, but not before ripping a neat hole in the thigh of Porthos’ trousers.

Porthos grunted, wiping his nose. “Least the horses like me.”

For a moment, d’Artagnan had been lost in the humor of the situation, and of the thought that Porthos, generally quite adored, could provoke such a reaction in any creature. At Porthos’ words, though, he remembered why they were there. Porthos led them through the gate, then approached the biggest, a pale grey mare, and fed her a lump of sugar from his pocket. “This is Nuage,” he told d’Artagnan. “That’s Miel. You can ride Brandy. She’s Aramis’.”

D’Artagnan swallowed hard. “Eh-- Porthos, I--”

Porthos stepped back from Nuage. “Oh. Eh, well you can walk all right so I’m sure you can nudge when you need to. Climbin’ up’s the issue, then?”

Not meeting his eyes, d’Artagnan nodded. “No matter how you do it, you know, there’s-- you need to be able to bend each foot. I really can’t bend the left one anymore.”

“Do you think I could pull you up?”

“Onto the same horse?”

“Nuage can take it. I can’t imagine you not ridin’ a horse for so long.”

“I have missed it,” d’Artagnan admitted quietly.

“C’mon, then. There’s only three, so we’re gonna have t’share sooner or later if we all wanna go anywhere together.”

The offer was humiliating and enthralling in equal part. “All right,” he consented, after a moment’s thought. “If you’re sure she’ll be all right with it.”

Porthos grinned. “Great!” He saddled up Nuage and swung himself on, then guided the horse to d’Artagnan’s side and extended his hand.

For a moment, d’Artagnan wanted to change his mind. But he wanted to ride a little bit more, and so he grabbed Porthos’ hand and held on for leverage as he fitted his good foot into the stirrup. Porthos lifted him easily. Without the need to push off on his bad foot, d’Artagnan found himself settling onto the saddle almost as easily has he had done ten years ago. He let out a huff of surprise.

He was in front of Porthos, he realized, and instinctively took up the reigns; Nuage obeyed him as though they’d known each other forever, and a moment later he had guided them out of the enclosure. Porthos wrapped an arm around his waist. “Go ahead, pup,” he encouraged, and d’Artagnan did not need to be told again.

They set off at a gallop, around the barn, past the distillery, and down to the orchard. Nuage’s mane blew over his hands as she ran, then settled back around her powerful shoulders as he eased her down to a canter. “Which way?” he called. Porthos indicated a narrow trail that led away from the orchard, and they set off along it. It was a beautiful afternoon, clear and breezy, and d’Artagnan reveled in the triple warmth of the sun at his face, Porthos at his back, and Nuage beneath them.

They rode a while longer. At last Porthos suggested they go back; when d’Artagnan sighed a little at this, he promised they would ride again soon. They made their way back to the distillery, bid the horses goodnight. Then they returned to the main house, where Aramis and Olivier were getting supper together.

D’Artagnan sat, a little stunned at how fast the day had gone. Lately he’d known days to drag on interminably, but here they were sitting down to their evening meal and he felt as though mere hours had passed since yesterday’s.

They prayed, then served themselves sausages and mashed turnips with butter. After they finished, Porthos cut up the rest of the cake; Olivier requested and received permission to top his off with the plum preserves that d’Artagnan had eaten at breakfast.

“My son has a terrible sweet tooth,” Aramis remarked off-handedly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

Something that had been growing inside d’Artagnan all day swelled up a little bigger, and for a moment he thought he might cry. Instead he finished his cake. Porthos fetched some water while Olivier cleared the table, then together they saw to the dishes. “Hey, Ar,” Porthos called, while they worked. “Can you fix my trousers?”

“I can, but I’ll need them first.”

Porthos chuckled, dried his hands, and then promptly stripped to his smallclothes; Aramis glanced over at d’Artagnan with a long-suffering look in his eyes. He disappeared into the sitting room, and returned a minute later with a needle and thread.

Porthos and Olivier had finished, and they all settled down around the table again, so as not to leave Aramis behind. Porthos fetched a book and began to read. Olivier, too, went and got something from the other room, but it was not his reader this time; instead it was a blank sheet of parchment, a flat board, and a box of charcoal. He pulled his feet up to his chair. Then, hands and paper hidden under the table, he frowned at the paper as though deciding what to draw.

“Porthos, _mi amor_.” Aramis’ voice interrupted d’Artagnan’s surprise. “You’re getting fat.”

“Then stop feedin’ me s’damn much cake,” Porthos replied easily.

“I can’t let your trousers out any more.”

“Do you know how much of an honor this is?” Porthos patted his belly proudly. “Do you know how skinny I was when I was a boy? You could’ve grabbed my spine through my belly button!”

“Your trousers are literally out of fabric.”

“Oh, hush. It’s nearly summer. Those things’ll be hangin’ off me by September. ‘sides I didn’t give them t’you to let out! I gave them t’you ‘cause Sotty ripped a great hole in the leg!”

“Sotty wouldn’t do that! It must have been Duveteux!” Olivier scolded. “Maybe he’d be kinder to you if you’d get his name right!”

D’Artagnan burst out laughing. All eyes turned to him, and then Porthos and Aramis chuckled as well, which only made d’Artagnan laugh harder, until he was feeling slightly hysteric. He put his head in his hands and tried to calm down. It didn’t work, and before long he was gasping, nearly choking for air, dripping tears onto the floorboards.

“Awright?” Porthos prompted, when at long last he managed to sit up again.

D’Artagnan nodded, wiping his eyes. How in God’s name could he possibly describe what it all looked like to him: Aramis, sewing with his tongue between his teeth; Porthos, down to smallclothes and reading in his chair; Olivier, tucked up neatly in his own chair and now scribbling away at his drawing paper. It was glorious. It was just about the last thing he could ever have expected, but it was glorious. “You’re-- _civilians_.”

Aramis looked up only long enough to ensure that d’Artagnan was remembering to address only him and Porthos. “It was a bit of a shock for us at first, too,” he admitted. “My poor brother. He only wanted to show us we could settle down and catch our breaths. I’m sure it was a little hard for him to understand-- but then, he’d never been a soldier.”

Aramis’ words were gentle but perfectly clear. D’Artagnan forced himself to stretch his legs out before him, rubbing at the ever-present ache, and smile over at Olivier. “What are you drawing, Olivier?”

Behind his freckles, Olivier blushed; unprepared for this reaction, d’Artagnan felt his heart swell up until he nearly giggled again.

“You’ve gotta wait ‘til he’s ready,” Porthos advised. “He’s a right moody artist if you try t’peek.”

Olivier was still a little pink, but shook his head and mastered himself. “No, I’m finished. You can see if you like, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” He passed a sheet of paper over; d’Artagnan received it carefully, then lay it on his lap to study. It was a cat, looking exceptionally cat-like in its haughtiness. And not only did the drawing capture a perfect expression, it was also genuinely _good_ , accurate and careful and largely unsmudged.

“Duveteux?” d’Artagnan guessed, trying hard to remember.

Olivier nodded. “He’s proud of himself for annoying Uncle Porthos.” Porthos made a quiet scoffing noise at this, and Aramis laughed. D’Artagnan passed the paper back, but Olivier shook his head. “You can keep it. That is, if you’d like to.”

Now d’Artagnan could feel his own face heating. “I’d love to. Thank you, Olivier.”

D’Artagnan slept much better that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on Aramis and Porthos in this fic: it seems a pretty natural thing to ship them here, and for a while I thought about it, but in the end I decided not to. I _love_ Portamis. But I like reading it much much more than I like writing it, for the simple fact that I am ace/not-fully-aro-but-on-that-spectrum and writing romantic relationships to me feels very unnatural. I much prefer writing stories in which the primary relationships are familiar/platonic-- but just as strong as romantic ones-- and that’s what’s going on here. That being said, they are probably, as always, a bit in love with each other. Aramis has gotten the family he always wanted so he’s pretty satisfied (and no, I don’t think he sneaks off to the village for romps). But there’s still that urge to _belong_ to somebody, and Aramis quite simply belongs to Porthos (and vice versa). Aramis calls him _my love_ not because they’re a couple but because Porthos is in fact his love. Basically queerplatonic but in the 1700’s. 
> 
> Animal names:
> 
> Duveteux = Fluffy (I very badly needed for there to be a cat named Fluffy)  
> Sottises = Mischief  
> Soleil = Sunshine  
> Nuage = Cloud  
> Miel = Honey


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for vomit, continued discussion of chronic pain

The next few days were just as easy. On Saturday night Aramis trimmed everyone’s hair, and on Sunday morning they rode into the village for Mass. Again Porthos let d’Artagnan guide Nuage. Even Mass itself was enjoyable, though d’Artagnan had not set foot in a church in years, and he marveled more than ever at how comfortable he’d become in less than a week here.

After Mass, d’Artagnan was introduced to some of their neighbors. Though it seemed that the three of them kept commonly to themselves, they were well-regarded, and knew both the farms surrounding them and many of the characters from the village as well.

For this, d’Artagnan learned, was the village. It was small, able to be ridden around in five minutes flat; there was an inn, a church, and a score of shops. This was different, Porthos explained, from the town. The town was another thirty minutes or so down the road, and was quite a bit larger; this was where they could go if they wanted to send mail, or buy anything that could not be found in the village.

And d’Artagnan loved it at once. It was a little smaller than Lupiac, but still it seemed a well-attended place, with a central square that led up to the church, from which one could see all the little houses and hazy hills in the distance. Olivier seemed to love it, too. He dashed about the square, regarded warmly by all he passed; _he’s from here_ , d’Artagnan thought, a bit absently. _When he’ll think about where he’s from, he’ll think about here_.

Back at the distillery, Aramis retired to his room to pray; Porthos went off for a nap; and Olivier went to visit his cats, leaving d’Artagnan to wander out of the main house and up the hill to the tree. He lay down beneath it, facing the orchard.

A little of the sadness he’d been expertly avoiding all week caught him, then, and he sat up and braced his back against the tree, willing it away. It didn’t work. He scowled, cross with himself for spoiling what should have been a lovely day for no reason other than his own nonsense. Maybe he just needed some company, was all. Alone and unoccupied he couldn’t help but feel terribly transient, having found a moment’s peace but knowing he might have to leave at any moment.

His leg was hurting as well. He’d been rather careless about it all week, walking and kneeling and riding as he pleased even when the constant aching swelled up to sharp pain; now he was paying the price. He sighed, stretched it out before him. He was massaging his calf with both hands when Aramis settled beside him.

“You don’t take anything for the pain, I assume,” he stated, by way of a greeting.

“No.” D’Artagnan sat back. “Willow upsets my stomach and opium makes me feel drunk.”

“I’m told some people enjoy the feeling of opium.”

“It makes it rather difficult to command.”

“You’re not commanding anyone here.”

“And does the village physician here actually keep a supply?”

“There is no village physician.”

“Exactly.”

“But I could always check the apothecary in town.”

D’Artagnan gave up on trying to seem stoic and began to massage again; Aramis still had his rosary in hand, and there was a symmetry in the way their fingers worked across their appointed surfaces.

“It was some Spaniard’s dying act, you know. Crippling me. I’d taken him down, thought he was dead, and the next thing you know there’s a sword slicing me ankle to knee.”

Aramis frowned. “What was the exact nature of the injury? Treville did not say.”

“They said he cut apart my ankle inside. I can’t easily put pressure on the foot anymore, and when I do, it’s got to be flat on the ground. Beyond that it was just a gash.”

“Just a gash that ran the length of your leg.”

“Mm.”

“Treville spoke of infection.”

Rather than reply, d’Artagnan rolled up his trouser leg to show the scar; it was a nasty, jagged thing, fully closed now but still an ugly red against the tawny color of his skin. “The whole of it was,” he sighed. “They wanted to amputate.”

Aramis looked up and met his eyes. “I would have let them, if I were you.”

“I know.” D’Artagnan rolled his trouser leg back down. “The infection injured the muscle, they said. They weren’t sure I’d walk again. But, I did.”

“Bet it hurts like hell, though,” Aramis replied softly. “And your hip too. I see the way you twist yourself trying not to limp.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Are you trying to tell me that amputation would have hurt _less_? Look, it was almost a year ago, Aramis, and frankly I wasn’t expecting _you_ of all people to lay on the pity.”

Aramis shook his head. “Forgive me, d’Artagnan. I wasn’t feeling sorry for you; I was only feeling sorry for myself.”

D’Artagnan frowned at that.

“Porthos and I expected to miss life in Paris,” Aramis continued. “Life as musketeers-- excitement and adventure. But in the end, we only missed you. We didn’t need any of the rest of it anymore. We only missed you, and when Treville wrote to say you’d been wounded, I questioned our decision for the first time. I hated myself for not being at your side.”

“So you could make me cut off my leg.”

Aramis scowled. “Well, at least so I could hold your damn hand. When you agreed to come and visit-- d’Artagnan, you’ve written so much less since your injury. I was afraid you’d never forgive us.”

“I wasn’t angry!” d’Artagnan cried, realizing for the first time that they might have thought this. “I suppose I just--” but he had nothing useful to say. “I wasn’t angry,” he repeated, in lieu of anything better.

Aramis shook himself a little. “In any case, when you agreed to come and visit I was ecstatic. Moreso since you’ve actually arrived. There was not a single day that I did not say a prayer for you.”

“It was eight years, Aramis.”

“There was not a single day,” Aramis said again. Suddenly exhausted, d’Artagnan closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before giving into the sleepiness and lying back on the grass. Aramis brushed the hair back from d’Artagnan’s face. “And people thought we called you our pup because of your age,” he chuckled. “But at thirty-one, you _still_ flop to the ground looking for pets.”

“Still younger than you.”

“Yes, that’s generally how things work,” Aramis agreed. But that wasn’t the case at all; in nearly a decade Aramis and Porthos looked barely older at all. Porthos had gained weight, but not overmuch. Aramis’ hair and beard were greying liberally, but that had begun halfway through his twenties, d’Artagnan knew, before he and Aramis had even met. Overall the years in the country had been kind to them. It was d’Artagnan who had raced ahead twenty years in less than ten, wrinkled from too much sun, sallowed from too little sleep, marred by countless wounds cauterized or else stitched in two minutes flat, wearied by duty and loneliness.

“You’re safe here, you know,” Aramis murmured. Seemingly he’d noticed that, after appearing quite ready for a nap, d’Artagnan had sprung awake again and was now glaring up at the sky. “You saw today. We’re on good terms with every farm surrounding us, and they with those beyond. We watch out for one another. In the six years we’ve lived on this land, we’ve not seen a single bandit.”

“We’re so close to Spain,” d’Artagnan whispered, unable to stop himself.

“D’Artagnan, you grew up no more than a day from the border as a child. You can’t tell me it bothered you then.”

“Sorry.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Aramis. I didn’t mean--”

“I know.” Aramis brushed his hair back again, then didn’t stop. “When we were staying with my brother, he and I went to pray at our parents’ graves. And as we were walking he looked at me and said, _Ren_ _é, thank God Mam_ _á did not live to see this_. He was right. I did thank God; the war would have broken her heart. The Spanish don’t want war. People don’t want war. Kings want war. But they don’t know what it means to fight one.”

D’Artagnan grunted. He had a lot of thoughts of this subject but none that he was keen to share at the moment. Instead he redirected the conversation. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Isn’t it, though? Easy to stay in a place like this.”

D’Artagnan smiled. “Are you implying something?”

“Yes. That you should stay here. You’ve always been the missing piece here.”

D’Artagnan sighed, gazing out across the sea of budding plum trees, at the hills beyond. “There’s nothing missing here, my friend. You’ve built a paradise.”

“So share in it. You’ve given a leg, and decade of your life to the crown. You should rest.”

A breath burst from his nostrils. “I’m thirty-one. Let’s not bury me yet, eh?”

“Hardly. But you have leave. There’s space here. And somewhere buried beneath all that strategy and weaponry information, I’m willing to bet you can still milk a cow. Stay.”

Could he? Could he stay here? Could he really intrude on the idyllic world they’d created here, on the family they’d fought so hard for? He’d done so before. Once upon a time, ten years ago, he’d pushed his way into their trio of friendship-- but wasn’t this different now?

“We miss you,” Aramis murmured. “You are-- missing from us. We’re three pieces of a four-piece puzzle, my friend.”

“You’re a family now.”

“Haven’t we always been?”

“Not like this.”

“And you should be a part of it.”

“Athos has two parents already.”

“ _Olivier_ ,” Aramis corrected gently, “would _adore_ having a big brother.”

D’Artagnan said nothing.

“Think about it,” Aramis said, resting his hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “I’m not asking for a life-long commitment, you know. Just-- stay as long as you like. Stay as long as you can.”

*

“We’ve got peaches!” Aramis announced cheerfully a few days later, as he struggled through the door with a wooden bucket under each arm, both nearly overflowing with red-orange fruit. Porthos rushed over to help him. It was early afternoon and they were all in the kitchen; Porthos was giving Olivier a lesson in arithmetic while d’Artagnan shelled peas.

Olivier, in a startlingly un-Athos way, was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Monsieur Michel?” he squeaked.

“Yes indeed. He just came by.”

“Can we make pie?”

“Of course. We’ll have some tomorrow, with supper.”

“Can we make jam?”

“ _Hijo mío_ , if there were any soul capable of eating every peach before they spoiled, it would be you.” Aramis had finished setting the peaches down and came over to put a hand on Olivier’s head. “But yes, I think preserving some would be more reasonable.”

Olivier grinned; then, seeming to remember d’Artagnan’s presence, he glanced over at him, then blushed deeply. “Sorry, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he mumbled. “I-- really like peaches.”

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow, feigning intensity. “As much as you like plums?”

Olivier’s eyes widened, and he shook his head frantically. “I don’t like anything as much as I like plums! Any food thing, I mean.”

It was Wednesday. D’Artagnan had been at the distillery a full week now, and he was growing more comfortable with Olivier with each passing day; Olivier, for his part, had never seemed _un_ comfortable, but would not stop addressing d’Artagnan as _Monsieur_. And of course, he still had moments of bashfulness. Far from off-putting, though, they were actually quite charming, and d’Artagnan found himself wondering if some small part of Athos’ supposed gloominess hadn’t really been shyness all along.

The rest of the day was devoted to peaches. D’Artagnan abandoned the peas in favor of chopping up the fruit, some of which Porthos began preserving and some of which Aramis covered with sugar and cinnamon and set aside to be filling for the pie. Olivier went outside to churn a fresh batch of butter. After supper-- a soup which had less peas than anticipated, but was still quite nice-- they ate two or three peaches apiece, and d’Artagnan went to bed feeling quite well.

The next morning it was darker than it should have been. D’Artagnan rose and shuffled to the window, then drew back the curtains to see grey rainclouds filling up the sky.

Maybe he should have known then.

In the kitchen, Olivier seemed distracted by the weather; he’d clearly collected the eggs already, for they were being eaten, but it was too early for him to have done all of his chores.

“Morning,” Aramis greeted, as d’Artagnan sat down at the table. “Just in case you haven’t noticed, I think we’re in for some rain today.”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “I noticed.” Aramis set a plate of eggs and bread before him and he ate it eagerly, then finished his breakfast with another peach.

Just then there came a knock at the door.

Porthos and Aramis stood, and frowned at one another; Aramis answered the door, and a moment later was receiving a letter. He thanked the messenger and closed the door, still frowning.

“Is everything all right, Papá?” Olivier prompted.

“Fine, _hijo mío_ ,” Aramis assured him. “Finish your chores before it rains.”

Olivier nodded and went outside; once he was gone, Aramis turned to d’Artagnan. “It’s for you,” he sighed. “It’s from Minister Treville.”

D’Artagnan’s heart sank, and in an instant a week’s worth of calmness fell away and left him right back where he started. He forced himself to stand, receive the letter.

“Thanks,” he said to Aramis, and his voice was dull to his own ears. “I’ll read it in the guest room, if that’s all right.”

Aramis and Porthos nodded, looking grim.

He did not make it as far as the guest room. His shaking legs would take him no farther than the sitting room and he fell onto a bench, knowing that this would have to make do.

He opened the letter.

 _Captain d’Artagnan_ , it read,

_Have received word from outpost 7 that Spanish operation (previously discussed) set to commence in one month or less. Expect you to conclude your visit within the week. Be in Paris within two. Regards to A, A, & P. _

_Yours,_

_Minister Treville_

D’Artagnan placed the letter carefully on the bench beside him. Then he turned and fled back out through the kitchen, out the door, and into the fresh air beyond.

He collapsed on the bench by the side of the house. When Porthos settled next to him, d’Artagnan didn’t hesitate to let his head drop against his friend’s shoulder.

“Aramis went to check the brandy. I thought I’d stick around, just in case. Hope that’s all right.”

It was more than all right, but d’Artagnan did not have the ability to tell Porthos this. His hands were shaking. His head was as cloudy as the sky above them, and the world seemed farther away than it should have been.

All at once his stomach felt over-full and uneasy. Braced up against Porthos’ sturdy form, he closed his eyes and breathed slowly, willing himself not to be sick. His body did not respond to reason. Mouth flooding with saliva, throat burning with acid, he pushed away from Porthos and pressed a hand to his lips, nearly panting now.

“Hey, ‘sall right, throw up if ya gotta. You’ll feel better after, yeah?” Porthos’ words were reassuring, even through the haze of nauseated misery, and d’Artagnan gave in, leaned forwards, and let himself heave.

Watery bile dribbled onto the ground. Porthos rubbed his back while he worked himself up to larger and larger retches, spitting up as much as he could, until finally something clicked inside his belly and he vomited hugely, a big nasty wave of everything he’d eaten at breakfast surging up and splashing all over the dirt.

Feeling instantly better, d’Artagnan spat, then collapsed against Porthos.

“All out?”

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Yeah. Shit, I’m s-sorry. That’s disg-gusting.”

“You say that like I ain’t raised a child,” Porthos replied sagely. “Ollie threw up on my head once.”

“I’m a grown m-man. I’m sure he was a b-baby.” D’Artagnan sniffled, wiped his nose as well.

“No, he was five or six.” A little quake of laughter ran through Porthos, at odds with the feeble shivering that had taken d’Artagnan’s own body. “Mind you, I wouldn’t laugh if it was from one of his headaches. But that _particular_ time he ate about a dozen plums an’ then hung upside from a tree.”

D’Artagnan laughed too, then. It hurt his aching throat but the feeling of mirthfulness was well worth the pain. Porthos rubbed his back.

“Go clean your teeth. I’ll take care of this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. We’re out-of-doors; ‘m only gonna kick some dirt on top of it.”

“No, I’m sorry I’m-- I’m sorry I’m l-like this.”

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos murmured, sobering. “Pup, you don’t have to be sorry for that. War’s a poison. You’ve got a lot of bad shit inside you an’ you’re just gettin’ it out.”

“Quite literally,” d’Artagnan huffed, and got his back rubbed again for the effort. He sighed. “Porthos, Treville wants me b-back.”

“I kinda figured.”

“He expects me to leave within the week. Be back in Paris within two. Christ, he must’ve sent that letter only eight or nine days after I set out!”

“How much leave were you supposed to have?”

“He said he’d let me have as much as he could. That he’d send for me when he needed me to return. In the moment it seemed generous. I should have seen it for a strategy all along.”

“You think you’re fit?”

“I think I have to be.” D’Artagnan rubbed at his belly; now that the initial relief of vomiting was fading, he felt queasy again, woozy and off-kilter. “Look, the only reasons you’re seeing me like this is because I’m letting myself-- I dunno-- fall apart a little here. Because you’re my friends, and I trust you. If I needed to muster myself and get back to it, I could.”

Porthos was frowning. “I know you could. But should you have to? Ten damn years, d’Artagnan, that’s how long you’ve been a soldier. An’ a captain for eight. When jus’ the thought of returnin’ has you bringin’ up breakfast--”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to protest but Porthos held up a hand. “Go. ‘m not arguin’ with you ‘til you clean your teeth an’ take a minute. Just remember. I ain’t someone you gotta impress.”

Trying not to pout, d’Artagnan pushed to his feet, avoiding the mess before him, and stumbled back into the house. It was blessedly empty. He cleaned himself up and forced down some bread in an effort to settle his stomach. Then he found himself wandering off towards the orchard.

In the time he’d been inside, it had started to rain; now water poured in thickening sheets from the pale grey sky. It was not quite cold, but not quite warm either. Exhausted-- drained and shaken and still a little sick-- d’Artagnan began to shiver under it, feeling the rain soak through his shirt and trousers and run down into his boots. He stopped, pulled the boots off. Leaving them at the edge of the plum trees he stepped forward and let the dripping branches engulf him.

The rows were long and tight. Twenty trees in, the ends closed up, until the whole world was nothing but a tangle of wet wood and new blossoms, all of it smelling fresh and sweet and clean, and before he could willfully decide to, d’Artagnan had sunk to the ground at the base of one of the trees. The dirt was cold and wet. The tree’s trunk was too thin for him to lean his weight against, and yet he felt safe within its canopy, not from the rain but from the world outside the orchard.

His leg was aching, feeling, as always, like a fresh, deep bruise. Still d’Artagnan pulled his knees to his chest and leaned his forehead against them, wondering how close somebody would have to get to see him. Probably not very. He was, after all, a man, dressed in a shirt that was greyer than the sky and trousers that were not quite as brown as the trees. And he was far too large, besides. Nevertheless he felt hidden, lonely in a way that was strangely comforting, and safer than he had the right to feel, sitting under a tree on an unguarded farm with his face pressed up to his thighs.

The rain did not end. He had expected it to, for this was the way of Gascony: violent, voluminous storms that passed quickly over to steamy sunshine. But this was not Gascony, he reminded himself, however close it was. The clouds extended far beyond the horizon and in the end he was glad of it, for the rain felt somehow like an additional measure of secrecy.

“So what did you do with your day, d’Artagnan?” Porthos chirped, later, as d’Artagnan shuffled to the door of the main house, soaked beyond decency, barefoot, with sodden boots in hand. He gave him no time to respond. Instead Porthos affected a terrible Gascon accent to reply, “oh, well, I threw up on Porthos then took a bath fully clothed. What did you do with _your_ day?”

“I d-didn’t throw up on you. I threw up very c-close to you.”

“No use denying the bath, though,” Porthos noted. Then, perhaps realizing that d’Artagnan was not much better off than he had been earlier that day, Porthos took pity on him. “Wait a min’,” he directed, then disappeared and returned with two towels. Then d’Artagnan stripped naked, tossing his dripping clothes in the laundry basin Porthos indicated, and fastened one towel around his waist. He shivered helplessly as Porthos used the other to scrub his hair.

“W-where’s Aramis and Oliv-vier?”

“In Ollie’s room, workin’ a bit on his Latin before supper. Havin’ that pie he promised. It’s bakin’ now.”

D’Artagnan nodded, but the movement became a massive, whole body shudder that left Porthos clucking in disapproval. “C’mon. Next to the fire with ya, let’s go.” And he shepherded d’Artagnan into the sitting room and drew a chair up next to the fire.

D’Artagnan lay down on the rug by the fire instead. Behind him he heard Porthos chuckle, then a quilt was spread over his mostly-naked body, and a pillow coaxed under his head.

D’Artagnan closed his eyes.

*

When he woke he was alone, but the noises of soup slurping and quiet conversation from the next room told him that his friends were not far. D’Artagnan pushed himself upright. He felt infinitely more himself than he had done since receiving the letter that morning-- enough so that he could spare a moment of embarrassment for having slept on the floor in the sitting room, naked but for a towel and a quilt.

He ran a hand through his hair. It was warm and dry now, and he wondered exactly how long he’d been sleeping. He was certainly hungry enough. Then again, he’d put himself at a disadvantage in this matter, having thoroughly rid himself of breakfast not long after consuming it. He did not feel nauseous anymore, though. Weak and groggy and the slightest bit disoriented, yes, but to feel like d’Artagnan again and to not feel like vomiting were two points of significant improvement.

He stood, keeping the quilt wrapped around his shoulders. Grateful that he could get to the guest room without passing the kitchen, grateful too that he had another set of clean clothes, d’Artagnan got dressed, then joined the others at the table.

The kitchen smelled like peaches. Porthos smiled warmly as he sat; Aramis went at once to fetch him a bowl of soup; and Olivier regarded him a bit shyly. “Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he said. “Uncle Porthos says you weren’t feeling well. Are you feeling better now?”

D’Artagnan smiled. “I am. Thank you, Olivier.” His voice sounded strange, as though he hadn’t heard it in a while, but the feeling of this faded away as he had his first spoonful of soup.

“I’m sorry you had to be ill on such a lovely day,” Olivier added.

“Do you like rainy days, then?”

Olivier nodded. “I like to sit by the window and listen to it fall. It’s very relaxing.”

“I suppose it is.”

“ _Hijo mío_ ,” Aramis cut in. “Are you finished with your supper?” Olivier nodded. “Can you go into your room for a little while, please?” Olivier nodded again and began to push back his chair, but d’Artagnan put a hand up.

“No, please. Olivier, don’t go.” He wasn’t sure if this was interfering with Aramis’ authority in some way, but he also didn’t want there to be any secrets among them (besides the absolutely necessary). To Aramis, he said, “I know you’re going to ask me about the letter, and I don’t mind you asking me in front of him.”

Aramis nodded. “Treville wants you back.”

“He does.”

“There are other captains in the regiment.”

“Four. We’ve grown. Part of the war efforts.”

“And among these four captains, there is no man competent enough to appoint the next?”

“I haven’t resigned, Aramis,” d’Artagnan murmured. “This is only a leave.” For a minute it seemed as though his friend would argue, but then Aramis only sighed.

“Eat your soup,” he prompted, and carried his bowl and Olivier’s over to the washing basin. “I made that pie.”

“Are you trying to sway me with baked goods?”

All at once there was a funny look on Aramis’ face. He came back to the table-- then crouched down beside d’Artagnan and pulled him into a big bear hug. It lasted a solid minute. When it was over Aramis returned immediately to washing the dishes, as though the hug had been his only available strategy and he was a little afraid to see if it had worked or not.

D’Artagnan finished his soup quickly. Not only was he famished, but it seemed that the others were waiting for him to finish before having any pie, and Olivier’s eyes snuck over to the cooling pastry more than once. Indeed, as soon as he was finished, Aramis cut four generous slices.

He was not so far gone that he could not enjoy the sweet, buttery taste of it, but d’Artagnan found his mind souring around it nevertheless. He had a week. He had a week left to spend in the company and safety of his old, dear friends, to breathe the freshness of country air, to wake to a cockerel instead of a messenger with bad news.

One week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to all my kind reviewers. This is still just getting started, so I hope you all continue to enjoy :)
> 
> Willow = willow bark, from which we derive our modern aspirin, which can indeed cause upset stomach. Opium, taken in the form of laudanum, has been used to treat pain but is of course also where heroin comes from and-- especially before our modern ability to counteract some of those effects by removing certain chemicals-- would definitely have left patients feeling high. (I also very much suspect that d'Artagnan sees taking pain meds as some sort of concession/defeat. Oh d'Art.)


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days were spent on edge. D’Artagnan hated that any uneasiness should have crept into the world of the distillery, and hated more than it had only come from him.

Attempts to distract did not help, either. He let Olivier explore his trunk, explaining the history of his pauldron, his cloak; the boy seemed to love it, and d’Artagnan relaxed a little at the thought that he had held Olivier’s attention. Not three hours later, though, he was down with a headache. D’Artagnan paced the house, fretting over the notion that some dust or scent in his trunk could have set it off. Porthos reassured him, reminding him that they came for no reason sometimes. But when the headache worsened and Olivier began to vomit, Porthos himself could no longer muster any comfort or optimism, and they sulked together in the sitting room.

It was Olivier’s first major headache that d’Artagnan bore witness to. The demeanor of the entire house shifted; supper was forgotten, and Aramis shut himself away in Olivier’s room, coming out only to request water and fresh linens, which Porthos scrambled to procure. D’Artagnan and Porthos never properly retired. They slept in short naps throughout the night, woken at the slightest noise from within Olivier’s bedroom, restless and irritable, and exhausted come sunrise.

Half asleep, d’Artagnan stumbled to the barn. He collected the eggs, milked the cow, and left some of the cream out for the cats, who seemed to glare at him for not being their beloved caretaker. Through the barn door he could see Porthos tending to the horses.

They met outside, and Porthos took the pail of milk away from d’Artagnan before he could protest; left only with the egg basket, he trailed Porthos back to the house.

Aramis was in the kitchen, gulping down some water. “He’s sleeping,” he reported. “He’ll be all right when he wakes up. Could one of you lie with him, though, just in case? I need to see to the linens.”

“No,” Porthos replied. His voice was scratchy but calm, and he stepped forward to pull Aramis into a gentle hug. “ _You_ lie with him, an’ get some damn _sleep_ , an’ _I_ will worry about the laundry.”

Aramis sighed, and nodded against Porthos’ shoulder. “ _Gracias, mi amor_ ,” he murmured. “I am a little tired.”

“Mm-hm. We both know you didn’t sleep a wink.”

“Did you?”

“More’n you. C’mon.”

Aramis let himself be led out of the kitchen, and a few minutes later d’Artagnan went into the wash room to find Porthos heating water in a large cauldron. A pile of soiled linens lay on the floor.

Porthos looked up when he entered. “You don’t have t’help with this,” he grunted.

“No, I will,” d’Artagnan insisted, even though he smell coming off the linens was less than pleasant.

Porthos regarded him a moment, then nodded. “All right. Laundry line came down in the storm. Can you go fasten it back up?”

D’Artagnan nodded. There was a door from the washroom that led straight outside, and he went out and found the fallen rope. It was still attached to a nail in the mortar of the house. He pulled it taught and fastened it to the pole set a short span away, and once this was finished he went back in. Between the two of them, the linens were drying on the line before long.

This done, still fidgety and glum, he and Porthos went down to the orchard to walk among the rows of budding trees. D’Artagnan tried to enjoy what might prove to be one of his last visits there. He also tried to squash down the terrible, selfish notion he’d been skirting around all day-- the resentment that one of his few and final days at the distillery should be an unhappy one.

Porthos and his kind heart attributed his melancholy to far more generous motives. “He’ll be all right,” he remarked, pausing before one of the trees. “Sorry. It really gets to me, y’know, anytime he’s sick. But I don’t want you thinkin’ he’s in danger or anythin’. Truth be told he’s a healthy kid, headaches aside. Hey, look. This branch is bloomin’.”

Unable to contain his misery any longer, d’Artagnan only hung his head, knowing that he would not be here when the blooms opened.

In the early afternoon, Aramis and Olivier emerged from Olivier’s room. The boy was paler than ever, with big purple crescents under his eyes, but he was smiling. “I hope I didn’t frighten you, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” he teased. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile.

“Frighten, no,” he assured him. “Worry, yes.”

“It’s nothing to worry about. It’s been happening since I was a baby. It’s like I told you before. I think it upsets Papá and Uncle more than it upsets me.”

Porthos huffed out an achy sort of laugh at this; Aramis smiled with a mixture of wistfulness and pride. He and Olivier disappeared into the kitchen then, and d’Artagnan followed after a moment.

Aramis was up on tiptoes, plucking herbs from the bunches on the rafters; he crumbled a mixture into a cup, then scooped up a healthy spoonful and fed it to Olivier. D’Artagnan expected a prim, polite response, as he’d seen thus far. Instead Olivier gagged dramatically, crossed his arms, and whined for water, every bit as grumbly and indignant as one would expect an eight-year-old to be. 

“Don’t fuss,” Aramis scolded, absently. Olivier’s frown only deepened, and remained until Aramis brought him water; if things had been just a little different, d’Artagnan was sure he would have laughed.

The mood at supper was subdued. Afterwards, though the night was not cold enough to need it, Porthos lit the fireplace, and they sat around it. D’Artagnan was glad not to be the only one in need of comfort.

Aramis and Olivier were curled up on a bench together, speaking in Spanish. D’Artagnan closed his eyes, let the sounds wash over him. He could understand the language completely now, though he didn’t tend to mention this, and he couldn’t speak it well in any case. He hadn’t meant to learn it. But it was an odd fact of war, how much one come to know of one’s enemies, and somewhere in those long years the language was something he’d acquired.

But this was a different thing entirely. Listening to orders shouted on the other side of a battlefield, receiving information from spies and prisoners-- these were harsh and ugly things. The way Aramis and Olivier spoke to one another was lovely. Their voices were soft and low, their words unhurried and nothing at all to weapons or strategies or troop positionings.

“ _Ella va a parir sus gatitos pronto_ ,” Olivier was saying. One of the cats was pregnant, then, though d’Artagnan hadn’t caught which it was.

“¿ _Qu_ _é vas a nombrarlos_?”

“ _Todav_ _ía estoy pensando_. ¿ _Cree que a Monsieur d’Artagnan le gustar_ _ía nombrar unos_?” D’Artagnan smiled, feeling a bit like crying too. Of course he’d help name the kittens, though he’d never see them born.

“ _Si, yo lo creo._ _¿Pero tu no tienes_ ningunas _nombres_?”

“Maybe food names this time,” Olivier murmured, slipping drowsily back into French; it was a charmingly familiar. Aramis occasionally slipped the other way, back into Spanish. D’Artagnan himself, once upon a time, had been known to slip back into Gascon when tired or drunk enough. He’d been enjoying their conversation, but this was soothing too. Soothing to see Athos so unguarded, sleepy and open and untroubled, thinking about what to name his new kittens.

The boy rattled off some names for a while. When his voice whispered to halt, Aramis tapped him lightly and ordered him off to bed. Olivier cuddled close another minute. Then, with a tiny groan of complaint, he slipped off Aramis’ lap.

“Goodnight, _hijo mío_ ,” Aramis said, smiling fondly.

“‘night, Papá. ‘night, Uncle. Goodnight, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” After receiving a round of _goodnight_ ’s in turn, Olivier shuffled sleepily off to bed.

Once he was gone, d’Artagnan rallied himself to speech, trying to shake off the gloom that had settled over him and be a good and engaging guest.

“Hey Aramis,” he began. “I-- I just wanted to make sure you know that I, eh-- I understand Spanish now. Pretty much entirely.”

Aramis smiled. “I assumed.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “I know you and Olivier weren’t talking about anything important, obviously, but if you ever wanted to-- I felt dishonest. Not letting you know that I’d understand.”

The smile widened. “I appreciate that thought, d’Artagnan, but first of all, like I said, I assumed you’d be fairly well fluent by now.”

“I don’t know about fluent. I’m much better at listening than speaking.”

“Olivier and I never use it to hide anything. Porthos grouches about it but he knows that too-- and I think he understands more than he lets on any way. We have no secrets. That’s the second thing: we only ever speak on little matters. Only-- I like having somebody to speak it with. In those last years in Paris, all too often I only got to speak my mother’s language with people I considered my enemy. And now I can speak it in my own home again. It’s nice.”

Now d’Artagnan was smiling too. “I understand.”

“You should teach Olivier Gascon.”

“Oh, eh. Isn’t that-- I dunno. You taught him Spanish because you’re so close to the border. Wouldn’t that be selfish of me?”

“I taught him Spanish because I wanted to speak Spanish with somebody,” Aramis replied, without hesitation. “Yes, we’re close to the border, but that wasn’t my reasoning. Although, honestly, we’re close to Gascony as well, if that makes you feel better. Olivier loves languages. Athos spoke five or six, you know. And between Porthos and me, we’ve only known enough to teach him Spanish and Latin--”

“That’s all you,” Porthos interrupted. “I only taught ‘im arithmetic, an’ history, an’ cookin’--”

“We both taught him to cook,” Aramis corrected sternly, and Porthos chuckled. “My point is that he enjoys learning, d’Artagnan. I’m not telling you to force him, only offer.”

Then Aramis smiled-- not at all meanly, actually a bit sadly. “Oh, of course. Agreeing to teach him Gascon would mean agreeing to stay for a while.”

The gloom fell right back on top of him like a rain-drenched cloak. D’Artagnan hung his head.

Aramis sighed. “I’m going to bed. Porthos, _mi amor_ , do remember to douse the fire?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Goodnight.”

“‘night, Ar.”

“Goodnight, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said then, turning to him and speaking with a voice full of patience and fondness and worry.

“Goodnight,” he mumbled in return.

Alone with Porthos, who was sitting in a chair, d’Artagnan stretched out on the bench and stared up at the ceiling.

“Aramis really has taught him a lot,” Porthos remarked, after a while. “Readin’, writin’, Spanish, Latin, medicine-- an’ bein’ a distiller, of course. Most of the things I know don’t apply here. Not that I’m complainin’. Only I want you to understand, I didn’t belong here either, at first. I never set foot outside Paris til I enlisted. An’ ‘round here most people that look like me’re Moors, an’ they ain’t treated too kindly.”

“I’m sorry, Porthos.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I am not complainin’. Only I want you to look at me an’ see how well I it in now. I love it here. I belong here now. It’ll take some time but you’re startin’ out farther along than I did.”

“Porthos, it isn’t that I don’t think I could belong here.” D’Artagnan rolled onto his side and regarded Porthos through tired eyes. “Here-- a place like here-- _is_ where I belong. But it isn’t a question of that. It’s a question of--”

“Duty?”

“Don’t spit that out like it’s profanity. You and Aramis found a higher calling than service to the country. Well done. I didn’t.”

“You’ve made your decision, then? You’re goin’ back? Ain’t hired a carriage that I know of.”

D’Artagnan groaned and heaved himself up to a sitting position, head throbbing a little at the sudden change in position. Then Porthos was at his side, wrapping an arm around him.

“We’re gonna be here for you, whatever you chose,” he vowed. “Only, if you’ve got just a few days left here, try t’be happy for ‘em, eh? I know the past day’s been hard on all of us, but we could take Nuage out tomorrow. Catch some rabbit. Ain’t had rabbit in a long time. Yeah?”

It was nearly impossible not to be cheered at least in part by Porthos’ words. D’Artagnan nodded. He laid his head on Porthos’ shoulder and received a ruffle of his hair for the effort, then was set to bed as primly and firmly as Olivier had been.

*

The next day, true to Porthos’ word, they took Nuage out and shot four rabbits for supper. It was stranger than d’Artagnan would have imagined, seeing a gun back in Porthos’ hands. They returned to the house and Porthos set to skinning them.

D’Artagnan had spotted some spring onions along the path to the barn; thinking they’d go well with the rabbits-- and in need of something else to do-- he went out to dig some up.

It wasn’t long before Olivier had found him. Smelling of butter, dusted with cat hair, he plopped down in the grass and watched d’Artagnan dig. “What are you doing, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Hello, Olivier. I’m picking some spring onions. See?” He passed one of the long vegetables over, and Olivier raised the white bulb to his nose and sniffed.

“It’s like a little onion! We’ve never eaten these before.”

“They’re nice. They’re milder than regular onions. The green parts are edible too.” Olivier smelled this end as well, and nodded in approval.

“Can I help?”

“Don’t mind getting your hands dirty?”

Olivier just stared.

D’Artagnan laughed. “No, I didn’t think so. It’s really easy. Just find a cluster of sprouts that looks like this”-- he pointed-- “dig around it just a little, then tug. See?”

Olivier reared up on his knees and began to dig contently. D’Artagnan pulled up a few more, then was hit by the sudden need to rearrange his leg. He groaned dramatically as he stretched it out. “Oh. I’m getting old, Olivier.”

“You aren’t old!” Olivier cried. “Not nearly as old as Papá and Uncle!”

D’Artagnan snickered at this. “No, I’m not nearly as old as they are. But I’m thirty-one. That’s old when you’re a soldier.”

Olivier thought about this for a little while, pulled up a few more onions, and sniffed them each carefully. “Do you mind if I ask you more about being a soldier? I liked looking at your pauldron.”

D’Artagnan fought back a wince that had nothing to do with the ache in his leg. Being a soldier was precisely what he did not want to talk about. What’s more, the last time he’d talked about the musketeers with Olivier he’d ended up with a headache, and although it was surely a coincidence, it had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Still he could not bear to say no. “Go ahead.”

“Well. Um. It isn’t about being a solider so much as--”

“Mm?”

“Athos?”

The name he’d so carefully been avoiding sent a shock through d’Artagnan’s body, as he stared into that man’s own eyes, huge and blue in the face of a little boy. “What have your father and uncle told you about Athos?”

Olivier shrugged. “He said that he served with them, and the four of you were good friends. They said that he was a brave man, and a good leader.”

“That’s true.”

“But they won’t tell me what happened to him,” Olivier continued. “They’ll say who he was but that’s all. I tried to ask once and it made Uncle Porthos cry.”

“Well, you know Porthos. He cries very easily.”

Olivier smiled. “Yes, he does! Papá says it’s perfectly all right, but I think Uncle doesn’t like to. He does this.” And then Olivier gave a picture perfect imitation of a weepy, blustery Porthos, working his jaw around to hold back the tears.

“That’s Porthos exactly.”

“But it was different, you know.” Olivier was solemn again. “It wasn’t the happy kind of crying, like he does when I make him pictures or poems. It was a sad kind. So I didn’t ask again. I thought-- perhaps I could ask you?” He pressed his lips together. “Monsieur d’Artagnan, did Athos die?”

Those eyes, those damn eyes, were so familiar-- and yet so young, so open, so very unlike they once had been. D’Artagnan sighed. “No,” he answered finally. “Athos didn’t die. But he had to go very far away, and we can’t see him ever again.”

“Not-- _ever_?”

“Probably not. And all three of us, we still think about him, and we still miss him, because he was our very good friend.”

“He was your brother.”

“Yes. Our brother. Our big brother. And me and your father and your uncle, we all miss him a lot. And sometimes we get sad when we think about him.”

Olivier nodded, looking openly downtrodden. “I wish I could meet Monsieur Athos. I think I would like him.”

“You would. And he’d like you too.”

“Please don’t tell them I asked about him.”

“All right, I won’t.”

Between them they’d picked a whole pailful of onions by now, and d’Artagnan pushed stiffly to his feet. Together they returned to the house. A pot of rabbit stew was just beginning to simmer, and d’Artagnan settled at the table and began to wipe down and chop the onions.

Aramis interrupted not long after, slapping a stack of papers onto the table.

“What’s this?”

“Practicalities,” Aramis chirped. “In case you thought my invitation was purely sentimental. Wouldn’t want you rejecting it on that charge.”

“Balance sheets,” d’Artagnan noted, glancing the papers over.

“We’re doing well here. I’m the distiller, you know, and Porthos is manager of the books and the farm. But as the farm itself expands he’s stretched thin between both. We’ve been talking for months about hiring another manager anyway, so that Porthos can focus on bookkeeping. Who better than you?”

“I--”

“And if you’re worried about the finances, don’t be,” Aramis added bluntly. “We aren’t barons but we’re quite comfortable. Last year’s harvest finished paying the loan from my brother and we can well afford the salary. It’s only going to somebody else if you say no.”

D’Artagnan smiled. “I--”

“Articulate today, aren’t you? Listen, I’m not expecting a response. Only putting the thought in your head.”

D’Artagnan dropped his chin onto his dirty hand, achy and heavy and tired.

The stew was rich and onion-sweet. Olivier was cheerful about his contribution, and Aramis and Porthos were in a similarly improved mood compared to yesterday. D’Artagnan, for his part, could not bring himself to join in their happiness. Instead he contented himself to appreciate it from afar, warmed by it if not persuaded by it, and he supposed there were worse ways to pass a night than eating a filling dinner and then assembling with his friends in the sitting room.

But something was happening to Olivier. As the night wore on his own mood was dampening, and by the time they settled together on the benches, he looked positively glum.

The others noticed too. “Are you all right, _hijo mío_?” Aramis prompted, after Olivier had spent a full ten minutes staring blankly at his empty paper.

“Um,” Olivier murmured, very quietly. “No, I’m not, Papá.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Yes.”

Aramis reached over and brushed Olivier’s hair back from his forehead. “Can you tell us?”

Olivier nodded, and looked away. “I-- I asked Monsieur d’Artagnan about Athos. I’m sorry if I shouldn’t’ve.”

“Oh,” Aramis sighed, then got off the bench and went to crouch before him. “You did nothing wrong, Olivier. I promise. You were curious, and there’s no harm in that.”

“It makes you all sad. All three of you. I don’t like seeing any of you sad.” D’Artagnan’s stomach dropped when he realized that Olivier’s eyes were filling with tears.

“ _Shh_ , _hijo mío_ ,” Aramis soothed, lifting the boy’s chin with his fingertips. “You know that sometimes we can’t save somebody from being sad. So what do we do?”

“We let them be sad,” Olivier replied-- dutifully, as though they were words he’d memorized. “We help them be sad. And when they’re ready, we help them be happy.”

Aramis wiped the tears that had trickled down Olivier’s cheeks, then pressed a kiss to his forehead. “We’re been sad about Athos a long time. And you’re a clever little thing for realizing that. But we’re ready to be happy, I think. Will you help us? Can we tell you about Athos?”

Olivier dried his eyes, then smiled. “Yes. Tell me.”

“Marvelous,” Aramis replied, sitting again, and pulled Olivier into his lap. “Where shall we begin?”

“What did he look like?” Olivier asked. “I’ve always tried to picture.”

“He had skin a little fairer than mine--”

“Like mine?”

“Like yours. And he had blue eyes too, just like you. He had brown hair and a handsome beard. And he was short! He was shorter than I am, so you can imagine how much smaller he was than Uncle and d’Artagnan.”

Olivier grinned. “Was he cross about it?”

“Maybe just a bit. One time we were delivering letters for the king, and on the road we came by some apple trees. Athos and I couldn’t reach any of the apples that were left. They were juuuust too far.”

“Did Uncle help?”

Aramis grinned, shooting a look at Porthos, who chuckled. “Uncle did not help a damn bit. We were too proud to ask, and when he realized how long we’d been struggling, he started laughing too hard to help. He was laughing so hard he had to sit down!”

Olivier tried to glare at Porthos, but couldn’t manage it. “So what happened? Did you climb the tree?”

“It wasn’t strong enough! But then Athos got on his horse and picked the apples that way, and gave me some too.”

“Where was Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“D’Artagnan wasn’t our friend yet. When this happened he was still just a boy, safe at home.”

“Will you tell me about when he came?”

D’Artagnan himself was sitting very still at this point. He could feel Porthos’ eyes on him but he could not look away from Olivier-- just as it had been his first day at the distillery.

“D’Artagnan came to Paris when he was twenty-one.”

“Why did he come?”

Aramis looked up for permission, and d’Artagnan nodded slightly.

“His father was killed,” Aramis murmured, and Olivier gasped. “He came looking for the man who did it.”

“Did he find him?”

“Yes, he did. After a little while. But first, he thought it was Athos.”

“Athos?”

“The man who killed d’Artagnan’s father was pretending to be Athos, to make the musketeers look bad. But we helped d’Artagnan, and we found the real man who did it, and when all of it was over d’Artagnan decided to stay in Paris. He became our novice, then our friend, and then our brother.”

“You all liked him a lot?”

“Mm. Yes, a lot. Porthos and I loved him at once. Athos did too. He-- didn’t talk about it; he didn’t tell him. Athos didn’t like to talk about how he felt. If he was happy or scared or sad or if he cared about somebody, you had to figure it out from the things he did, because he didn’t just tell you. But he was always very proud of d’Artagnan. And d’Artagnan is a captain now, a captain in the musketeers, and Athos would have been so, so proud of him to know that. We’re proud of him too.”

“I’m proud of him too.” Olivier stated, with a smile.

Tears were streaming down d’Artagnan’s cheeks. He remembered Olivier’s words-- remembered happy crying and sad crying-- and tried to look as though this were the happy sort. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t a happy sort of crying at all, and d’Artagnan folded in on himself and tried instead to stop, but found he couldn’t, found that even beyond not being able to stop he was very near the edge of weeping aloud--

Then a little pair of arms encircled his neck.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan is not ready to be happy yet,” Olivier reported, and d’Artagnan huffed a sticky laugh against the boy’s narrow shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Olivier,” he murmured. “Silly old soldier. I really was tr-trying to be.”

Olivier squeezed his shoulder and, with a solemnity far too ancient for a young boy’s voice, soothed, “never hide being hurt, Uncle says. Not your body or your heart.”

Porthos’ wisdom from Olivier’s mouth. Aramis’ gentility, in the fingers that rubbed the muscle of his shoulder. And behind them, behind it all, Athos: his friend, his leader, his teacher-- his big brother, in this little body.

D’Artangan’s nose was running now, and his teeth were chattering. Control hung by a thread, but no matter who Olivier was-- no matter that he was the best of all of his friends combined-- d’Artagnan was not about to sob into an eight-year-old’s shoulder. He screwed his eyes shut.

“Olivier,” Porthos rumbled, “can I take a turn huggin’ d’Artagnan for a li’l while?”

Against his head, d’Artagnan felt Olivier nod; then his arms disappeared, replaced by Porthos’.

D’Artagnan broke down sobbing. Beyond dignity, halfway beyond even coherence, he curled himself up against Porthos’ chest and surrendered to the urge to grieve, the primal need to _weep_.

It wasn’t just Athos. It was Porthos and Aramis too, how much he’d missed them, how much he’d missed all three of them, and those long years in between, those years of battle and blood and orders and decisions and slouching back to the captain’s tent at night and only wanting a brother, only wanting someone who could take his hand and tell him that he was all right, that he was doing all right, that everything would work out in the end--

He wasn’t quite sure how long he cried. D’Artagnan only knew that by the time he sat back, his head was throbbing and his throat was sore and Olivier was dozing peacefully in Aramis’ lap.

“Long war, eh?” Porthos murmured.

D’Artagnan breathed out shakily, calmer now but not completely rid of the hitch in his exhausted lungs. “Long war,” he agreed. He flopped back against Porthos, drained dry by exhaustion and relief. “Long damn war.”

D’Artagnan turned his head, wanting to see the rest of his brothers. Aramis regarded him fondly from across the room, his eyes black and warm, his hand stroking up and down Olivier’s back just as Porthos’ own was moving over d’Artagnan’s. D’Artagnan’s belly contracted, and he hiccupped quietly. Porthos chuckled, hugged him tighter, and somewhere within this tiny flurry of activity, Olivier blinked awake.

D’Artagnan smiled over at the boy, and he returned it sleepily. Then he yawned and slipped from Aramis’ arms, and not a moment later he was before d’Artagnan, climbing up onto his lap. D’Artagnan hugged him close. A fresh stinging rose up in his eyes but he simply closed them, shimmying closer against Porthos, pulling Olivier with him, feeling the creak in the bench as Aramis squeezed in at his other side.

“It’s all right, d’Artagnan.” Aramis’ fingers tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, and d’Artagnan had never understood his friend as a father as well as he did in that moment. “You did well, and you can rest now.”

Feeling like a weary old man, feeling like a child, d’Artagnan gave a quiet sigh and let sleep take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh... so I'm sick, got like four hours of sleep last night, and have had the worst week at work, now have hectic plans all weekend... saying this because I don't like to complain in real life or on social media, but I'll complain to you guys :) Lucky you. Send me tiny drabbles about the boys hugging and cuddling each other to make me less miserable. (This was, in fact, perfect timing for this chapter!) Anyway.
> 
> I suppose it’s time to talk about translations! All right. So. Spanish translations are mine. I am actively learning Spanish and therefore try my very best to do the grammar stuff on my own, only looking up vocab, and even then only when necessary. If you see any errors, please feel free to correct!
> 
> Also! Starting in the next few chapters there will be some basic Gascon incorporated into this fic. Bilingual!Aramis is one of the most common tropes in the fandom, but d’Artagnan himself would logically be bilingual too, and this doesn’t come up nearly as much. The problem there is that there is basically a complete lack of English-to-Gascon resources to be found. That being said, there is this here: (http://www.omniglot.com/language/phrases/gascon.php), which has some basic phrases, from which one can try to work out basic basic grammar. And then there’s this lovely thing: (http://web.archive.org/web/20140331043100/http://pedagogie.ac-toulouse.fr/col-belleforest-samatan/occitan/cariboost_files/Dico_20PDF_20Franc_C3_A9s_20Occitan_20_28Gascon_20tolosan_29.pdf). This is a French-to-Gascon dictionary. (I’m not sure if it’s the exact subdialect of Gascon that d’Artagnan would speak, but take what you can get, eh?) There are no explanations regarding conjugation, so what can be said using this is still pretty limited. Nevertheless, combining the vocab here with the basic grammar from the first link did allow me to include a handful of very short exchanges, and some more vocab scattered throughout. If you don’t speak much French (I don’t!) then you’ll have to muddle through some double translations to use this dictionary, but I think it’s well worth it. That being said, I’m sure I’ve made mistakes. If anyone reading this actually speaks Gascon, please feel free to correct-- although if you actually speak Gascon and are too afraid to reveal this to the fandom lest you be inundated with pleas for translation 24/7, I understand! (One last thing. I also found this link: (http://www.quotez.net/french/proverbes_gascons.htm) with some Gascon proverbs, but the idiomatic translations are still into French, and I did not feel up for dealing with that. Somebody who does speak fluent French might be better able to make use of that resource!)
> 
> Translations:
> 
>  _Ella va a parir sus gatitos pronto._ = She’s going to have her kittens soon.
> 
> _¿Qué vas a nombrarlos?_ = What are you going to name them?
> 
>  _Todavía estoy pensando. ¿Cree que a Monsieur d’Artagnan le gustaría nombrar unos?_ = I’m still thinking. Do you think Monsieur d’Artagnan would like to name them?
> 
>  _Si, yo lo creo. ¿Pero tu no tienes_ ningunas _nombres?_ = Yes, I think so. But you don’t have _any_ names yet?


	5. Chapter 5

“There was a time when we practically had to _sit_ on you to get you to sleep past dawn.”

D’Artagnan blinked awake.

Darkness gave way to the shine of Aramis’ smile. The light in the sitting room was soft and pale but not new-- gone seven thirty at least, quite possibly eight. D’Artagnan rubbed his eyes. Aramis was dressed in his brown trousers and a ratty tan shirt, his fingers stained faintly orange, his whole face warm and kind.

“Olivier stayed with you all night,” he reported. “He insisted. Porthos and I, you know, we’re old men. We belong in our beds. But he worried about you waking in the night.”

“Mm,” d’Artagnan hummed, sitting up and pushing his hair back from his face. “Slept straight through. He’s a charm. Where’s he now?”

“Chores. Day’s in full swing, my friend. I’ve chopped all the carrots in France while you’ve been dreaming.”

D’Artagnan huffed. Even if it were eight o’clock already, it was no later than he’d slept the rest of this week. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to eleven.”

His face must have been a sight to behold, for Aramis chuckled. “Relax. You needed it. On the upside, Olivier’s got to be just about finished by now.”

D’Artagnan swung his legs off the bench, then pushed himself stiffly to his feet; he spent a moment stretching and popping various joints while Aramis stood wordlessly by. With a massive crack of the neck, he finished. Then, before he could make his way out for a wash and a piss, Aramis had grabbed him up tightly in a steady embrace. Despite his surprise, d’Artagnan relaxed into it at once. It was an odd feeling, the morning that came after basically crying oneself to sleep, and d’Artagnan felt calm but weak, at ease but a little unsteady. He sighed into Aramis’ neck. He’d needed a hug, was the basic gist of it, and Aramis had known this and had given him one.

“Y’re a good father,” he huffed, and Aramis laughed.                             

“Please. You know I fathered you all for years.”

“Did you? I always sort of thought that was Porthos.” D’Artagnan pulled away as Aramis made to cuff him on the ear.

“Plenty of times I think it took the three of us to raise you.” Aramis’ smile softened. “And here you are. Grown, and a captain in the musketeers.”

“If we could just-- not make me cry again? At least not before breakfast, please?”

“It’s hard when you breakfast so late.”

Snorting a little at this, d’Artagnan went off to the washroom, then changed his clothes and went out to the kitchen. The fire had long gone out. Not feeling like lighting it again, he ate a few peaches, then went out into the fresh air, hoping to cure himself of the ironic grogginess of sleeping too much. He didn’t know where Aramis, or anyone actually, had gotten to. Perhaps they were giving him space, or perhaps they were simply getting on with the lives that had not stopped just because of the arrival of some beat-up, woebegone captain.

Wanting to be useful, he picked some more onions. Once he’d brought them back to the kitchen, he went up to visit the horses, and fed them each some sugar, now that Porthos had shown him where he kept some lumps set aside.

If they had decided to give him space, Olivier made a poor show of it. They met up as d’Artagnan was coming back from the horse enclosure; the boy hugged d’Artagnan shyly and asked for his company while he studied his Latin on the swing. D’Artagnan agreed. They spent a few hours up on the hill, Olivier swinging idly while he conjugated verbs aloud and d’Artagnan sprawled out on the grass and shrugging now and then, not knowing if any of it was correct.

Aramis joined them in the late afternoon. The sky was filling up with clouds and it was cooler than it should have been at that time of year, in that part of the country. “Is d’Artagnan helping you with your Latin?”

“Not really. But he’s keeping me company.”

“To help with Latin, I’d have to speak Latin.”

Aramis chuckled at this. “D’Artagnan speaks a language we don’t speak, though,” he said to Olivier. “It’s called Gascon.”

“I remember reading about Gascony. What’s the name of your village, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Eh, Lupiac.” D’Artagnan pushed himself up to a sitting position, and rubbed his leg.

“How far is it from here?”

“Not far. Less than two days.”

“Here,” Aramis interrupted, seizing Olivier’s reader and tossing it into d’Artagnan’s lap. “You’ll study too much and forget to have fun, _hijo mío_.” Olivier lit up with excitement and gripped tight to the ropes, knowing what was coming; Aramis stood behind him, and began to push him rhythmically. A minute later he was swinging nearly as high as Aramis’ head.

This kept up a while, during which time d’Artagnan regarded them fondly, enjoying the childish glee in Olivier’s eyes, the affection in Aramis’ smile. At last Aramis stopped pushing, and the swing began to slow. When it had stopped fully Olivier hopped off, hugged his father in thanks, and retrieved his reader. “I’m going to go help Uncle make supper,” he announced, and ran off.

Aramis chuckled, and reached down to pull d’Artagnan to his feet. “It’s chilly,” he remarked. “I hope tonight will be the last of the spring that we have to light a fire.”

“Mm.”

“Would you like me to push you on the swing?”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “I think I’m a bit heavy for that.”

“I don’t know about that. You’ve always been thin. I think your legs might hit the ground, though.”

“I’d rather not risk it. They’ve been through enough.”

“Mm. In any case. We’re going into town tomorrow. If you’re going to hire a carriage it’s probably your last chance to do so on time.” He waited a moment before prompting,  
“D’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan could only sigh. Aramis seemed to accept that there would be no real response, and they stood silently.

“You do realize,” d’Artagnan noted a while later, “that you’ve offered to hire a crippled farm manager?”

“A crippled orchard manager. And does that make less sense than a crippled captain?”

“I’m a good captain.”

“I’ve never thought otherwise,” Aramis replied quietly. “Athos saw it coming practically the day you met.”

“I never saw it coming. Frankly I still don’t know what I did to deserve it. But I’ve worked-- really hard at it.”

Aramis clucked his tongue, thoughtfully. “Perhaps we all should not have spoken so much about how proud we are of this, eh? D’Artagnan. My dear d’Artagnan. Don’t you realize we’d be just as proud of you for looking after yourself?”

That did it; that brought the tears again. He’d cried _once_ , in eight years of war-- he’d cried when Constance had left him-- and now, here at the distillery, he was breaking apart for the second time in less than a day.

“Is that what this is?” Aramis prompted. “Do you still feel as though you have to prove yourself? You’ve proven yourself a hundredfold. Treville knows this too.”

“Then why does he want me back?”

“Because for all the goodness in him, the minister will always put victory above all else. Because you’re a good captain, and when there’s a war on, men like him don’t see anything but usefulness. But that’s how wars get started in the first place. If you wait for Treville to give you a moment’s rest you’ll never get one. So-- fucking _take it_ , d’Artagnan. Take it for yourself. The children of God are worth more than the pride of a king. Your life is worth more than your usefulness. D’Artagnan-- _hey_ , now--”

And Aramis reached out his hands to gentle the descent as d’Artagnan sunk back into the grass, pressing his palms to his forehead, sobbing into his wrists.

The sun bobbed slowly in and out of clouds. Aramis’ fingers were tucked into his hair, motionless, unwavering, tickling the edge of his ear just as the wind-blown wildflowers tickled his naked ankles. The air was sweet and damp. In the distance he could hear birds chirping, and Porthos and Olivier speaking back at the house, though he could not make out the words.

“What I say now I say to an old friend.” Tears flowed on, but Aramis had waited for the silent stage of grief before speaking. “D’Artagnan, you aren’t well. Something festers inside of you, and if you don’t see to it now it will be the end of you. You’ll ride back to Paris and we will never see you again. Please don’t do that to us. Please don’t do that to yourself. You don’t have to sign your whole life over to us. But stay a while longer.”

D’Artagnan pulled a crackling breath. “‘f I don’t leave right now, I might never.”

“So never do.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to go back, d’Artagnan.”

The words were a knife, cutting deeper than he remembered how to go himself.

“The war’s not over,” he bleated. “‘m not sure it’ll ever be over.”

“It could be over for you,” Aramis murmured, then wrapped his arms around d’Artagnan and held him close as the sobs began anew.

*

D’Artagnan wept a while, finally stopping when the chill in the air deepened and Aramis began to shiver against him. At this point he was shuffled back to the house, bullied into supper. Then he retired to the guest room, curled up under the quilt, and cried himself to sleep again, just for good measure.

Once, or twice it seemed, had not been enough. But now after three good cries and two long, cozy sleeps, d’Artagnan woke to the realization that, at long last, he felt a little better. Not great. Not fully well. But better.

Slow-footed with lingering sleepiness, he padded into the kitchen; Aramis was stirring porridge while Porthos poured over what looked like a balance log at the table. D’Artagnan walked straight up to Aramis and flopped against his chest. He’d lost, if he’d ever had at all, the capacity for expressing his emotions with words, but he still knew how to do it with his body all right. There was a clunk of a ladle dropping. Then Aramis was hugging him fiercely, swaying a little in his attempt to hold him as tightly as he could, and d’Artagnan nuzzled against him and breathed and breathed.

“I wanna stay,” he mumbled. “‘f you’ll still have me.”

“Of course. D’Artagnan, of _course_ ,” Aramis replied. A moment later Aramis let him go, and d’Artagnan began to frown-- until he realized that he was merely being passed over to Porthos, wrapped up in a second set of arms and squeezed within an inch of his life.

“You don’t mind?” he heard himself pleading. “You don’t mind?”

“We don’t mind, d’Artagnan,” Aramis murmured, at the same time that Porthos growled, “would you stop bein’ stupid, pup?”

“Olivier-- will he mind?”

“Ask him yourself,” Aramis replied-- and d’Artagnan jerked back, and lifted his head to see that the boy had joined them in the kitchen.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” Olivier said quietly. “Are you going to live with us?”

D’Artagnan looked him up and down, eyes catching on all the traits that said _Athos_ \-- pale blue eyes, scattered freckles, and a little pink scar sloping through his upper lip.

“Would that be all right?” d’Artagnan whispered.

Those eyes lit up like a sky after a rainstorm, and Olivier nodded politely and replied, “I’d like that very much.”

“It’s settled,” Aramis declared, and tried to snatch d’Artagnan away from Porthos, who grunted and continued to hug him anyway, and then Olivier came up and wrapped arms around d’Artagnan’s thighs and d’Artagnan closed his eyes and sank into the comfort of his family-- his long lost, now found family.

He wrote Treville without delay. He and Porthos rode Nuage into the town, where they hired a messenger to deliver the letter and then bought a box of marzipan to celebrate. That night all but Olivier drank too much brandy. D’Artagnan fell asleep in Porthos’ lap before the sun had finished setting, and woke with a mild hangover and the unbelievably glorious realization that this was the bed he would continue to wake in for some time now.

He was home.

What happened next was unexpected and strange and messy and lovely. D’Artagnan shattered, quite completely. For a solid week, not a day passed that he did not find himself breaking into tears at least two or three times. It did not seem prompted by anything-- it just happened. Sometimes it lasted seconds, sometimes solid half-hours; sometimes it was silent, sometimes sloppy and hysterical and helpless.

But every time, somebody stayed with him. Every time, Porthos or Aramis or Olivier would come and sit with him until he had cried himself empty. Porthos would pull him into his lap and pet his hair. Aramis would hug him tightly and soothe him with wordless murmurs, and Olivier would sit beside him and pat his back and tell him stories about his beloved cats until d’Artagnan laughed through his tears.

They fed him well when he was willing to eat, and said nothing when he wasn’t. Let him fall asleep on their shoulders and in their laps, and said nothing when sunrise found him already awake for hours, and restless for company.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, it ended.

D’Artagnan woke to the sound of the crowing and, rather and turning over and falling back asleep, he rose, dressed, and reported to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Porthos greeted. “Breakfast?” At the table, Olivier and Aramis were eating eggs.

“Please,” d’Artagnan replied. “I think there’s an orchard I’m meant to be managing or something.”

*

“Ollie,” d’Artagnan began one morning. It was June now, about a month since his arrival, and this particular moment found him kneading a loaf of bread as the sun rose in the window.

“What is it, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“Would you like to learn to speak Gascon?”

Aramis, who was perched at the edge of the table eating a bowl of porridge, looked up and grinned. Olivier’s eyes widened. “I would! Do you think we’ll have time?”

“I know we’ll be busy for the next few months. But we could get started now. I can teach you the basics and by the end of harvest you’ll be ready for the harder stuff.”

“Is it very different from French?”

“It’s different enough, although a lot of words are similar.”

“Is it the language you use in your head?”

D’Artagnan thought about this a moment. “No, not anymore. But when I was your age it was. And it’s still very special to me. I’d be honored to teach you.”

“I’d be honored for you to teach me, Monsieur d’Artagnan!”

Aramis chuckled. “You know, _hijo mío_ , d’Artagnan’s going to be around for a while. I don’t think you need to keep being so polite with him. He’s really your uncle, in the end-- why don’t you call him Uncle D’Artagnan?”

This sobered Olivier a little. He glanced over at Porthos, who was stoking the fire, and frowned. “Well. Um. Uncle Porthos has been my uncle my whole life.” Olivier looked distinctly uncomfortable, which made d’Artagnan’s heart sink a little as well. “I think that name is for him. And Uncle Gustave. I-- I’m sorry, Papá, I don’t think I’d like to.”

“I don’t mind, _cheri_.” Porthos’ voice was gentle. “Doesn’t hurt my feelings. I promise.”

But Olivier still seemed hesitant.

“How about you just call me d’Artagnan, then?” D’Artagnan suggested. “Monsieur is too much. D’Artagnan is my name. You can just call me that.”

Olivier brightened. “You wouldn’t mind? Isn’t it impolite?”

“You’re the one who’s pointed out how much younger I am than those two.”

Olivier blushed a little at this, but kept on smiling. “All right. D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan. Can you teach me how to say one thing in Gascon right now? Just one?”

“All right. Hm, let’s see. Eh, to say _my name is_ , we say _que m’apèri_.”

“ _Que m’apèri_ ,” Olivier echoed.

“So you should say, _que m’apèri_ Olivier.”

“ _Que m’apèri_ Olivier. _Que m’apèri_ Olivier d’Herblay.”

D’Artagnan stuck out his hand. “ _Que m’apèri_ Charles d’Artagnan. _Que m'hè gai de t'veder_ , Olivier d’Herblay.”

Olivier stopped in the middle of shaking his hand to stare blankly. D’Artagnan laughed and flicked some flour off his fingertips and onto Olivier’s shirt. Aramis grinned. Porthos grumbled something about wanting to have a secret language with Olivier, but he too was smiling.

“We’ve got time,” d’Artagnan vowed.

*

June flew by. The blossoms opened on the plum trees and Cannelle the cat grew larger and larger until, on the first day of July, the distillery woke to the sounds of Olivier shouting.

“Kittens!” he hollered, rousing the men from the kitchen. “The kittens are here!”

At the barn they found Olivier grinning wildly over three tiny kittens, one white and two grey, as they nursed eagerly at their mother’s side.

It was earlier even than their normal breakfast hour. “Olivier, how did you know she was going to give birth now?” Aramis prompted, rubbing his eyes.

Olivier shrugged. “I just did.”

Aramis turned to Porthos, who was stifling a yawn. “They _just_ missed being your birthday cohorts, _mi amor_.”

Porthos snorted. “Overshadowed by a bunch of kittens.”

“Adorable kittens, though,” d’Artagnan put in, from where he was kneeling by Olivier’s side, petting the little creatures with one fingertip.

“We haven’t thought of names yet!” Olivier gasped.

“What sort of names do you want, _hijo mío_?”

Olivier thought about this a moment before grinning, and turning on d’Artagnan.

And that was how d’Artagnan came to pass a full hour sprawled out in the hay, translating random words into Gascon to be met with approval or disapproval for the possible name of a cat.

Eventually Olivier was satisfied. The white female was to be Cima because “she looks like the snow on a mountaintop”, the grey female to be Mirga because “she’ll catch a lot of mice, I know it”, and the grey male to be Gahús because “I don’t know, d’Artagnan, don’t you think that’s a good name for a cat?”

Porthos and Aramis returned once the sun had risen and the most urgent of the morning chores attended to.

“Papá! Uncle Porthos! Meet Cima, Mirga, and Gahús. They’re Gascon cats!” Olivier announced brightly.

Porthos groaned. “Now if that don’t sound like the stubbornest beast on God’s earth, I don’t know what does.”

“Olivier, I’m so happy you’re excited, but you need to go eat some breakfast now,” Aramis said firmly. “Cannelle knows what to do. She’ll look after them.”

For a moment d’Artagnan though Olivier would argue, but he didn’t. Instead he blew the kittens each a kiss, then dashed out of the barn.

As soon as he was gone, Aramis knelt down besides the kittens. One by one he lifted them gently, inspected their paws and ears, and touched a fingertip to their mouths to feel their breathing.

“How do they look?” Porthos prompted.

“Healthy, from what I can tell.” Aramis pushed to his knees. “Thank God. It was a small litter.”

“We you expecting them to be ill?” d’Artagnan wondered. He’d been down on the ground for a while now, and accepted Porthos’ hand to pull himself upright.

“Not necessarily, but these things happen. I suppose we’re always worried about it.”

“We lost a cat two years back,” Porthos continued. “Ollie was only six, an’ when we told him the cat just moved house, he believed us. He wouldn’t now, though. If any of ‘em passed, it’d break his heart.”

“Frankly I’m shocked it hasn’t happened yet,” Aramis sighed. “But we’ll take it as long as it lasts, yes? I just-- I hate to think of him unhappy. I just hate it.”

“Aramis, he’s a very happy child.”

Aramis was frowning now. “He still doesn’t laugh. Have you noticed that? An eight-year-old, who never laughs.”

“He smiles enough,” d’Artagnan replied. “He’s always smiling.”

“Mm.” Aramis still looked thoroughly unhappy about this; clearly this was a thought that weighed heavily and frequently on his mind.

“Aramis, he’s still himself, y’know? There’s parts to him that are just _him_ , and nothing to do with how he was raised.”

Aramis smiled warily. “I know. You must think we’re trying to change him somehow-- we aren’t. That isn’t our intention.”

“You only want him to be happy. Aramis, he is.” Heart swelling with affection, d’Artagnan loped over to Aramis’ side and hugged him tightly.

“He’s a worrier,” Porthos chuckled from behind them.

“You’re not?” d’Artagnan replied, at the same time as Aramis huffed out against d’Artagnan’s shoulder, “ _please_ , Porthos.”

“I don’t know what the two of you mean. Now if you’ll ‘scuse me, I ain’t had breakfast yet either.”

The next day the kittens were still all Olivier could talk about. But the day after that was Porthos’ birthday, and all else was pushed to the side as the three of them scrambled to prepare an extravagant supper. Porthos hung around the orchard, pretending not to know. When the time came to usher him back into the house, present him with hugs and gifts and food fit for the king, his surprise was expertly feigned; his tears, d’Artagnan suspected, were not feigned at all.

Just before bed d’Artagnan found himself captured in an enormous embrace. Porthos was good and drunk at this point, and nuzzled his head against d’Artagnan’s shoulder for a moment before speaking. “‘s so fuckin’ good you’re here,” he huffed. “‘m so fuckin’ glad. Best gift I could get. All four of us back together.”

And though d’Artagnan had done remarkably well not crying of late, this coaxed a few tears from his own eyes.

Once they’d let go, Aramis came over to hug Porthos as well. He grunted softly as he was latched onto with visible strength, pressing his forehead to his friend’s. “Oh, _mi amor_ ,” he sighed. “All these years and you still hold on like you think I’m going somewhere. You’ve drunk too much. Come and sit.” And he led Porthos to a bench and settled down beside him.

A moment later Olivier had wriggled into Porthos’ lap, and then d’Artagnan squeezed in at his other side and wrapped an arm around his waist. They sat this way a long time, holding their fearless guardian in their midst. And it felt good, unexpectedly good, not to be in the middle of such a pile-- it felt good to know he was not the only one who needed such things.

*

The next day a carriage arrived with the rest of d’Artagnan’s effects. He’d received Treville’s reply within two weeks, accepting his resignation with clearly stated disappointment, but accepting it nevertheless. His savings he had luckily brought with him already. And so he’d put a small chunk of them towards commissioning the retrieval of the things still left in his apartment; now that they were here it finally seemed time to move into the last bedroom of the d’Herblay distillery.

This only prolonged the celebratory feeling in the house. Olivier remained cheerfully underfoot as the three men carried the handful of crates back into the bedroom and began to unpack them; Aramis, before long, lovingly but firmly sent him away.

“Go draw something for d’Artagnan,” he told Olivier. “A moving-in gift.”

This occupied Olivier in his bedroom for a few hours, giving d’Artagnan time to fully unpack. When he was finished, Aramis fetched more brandy. And though Porthos had risen that morning with a loud, miserable declaration that he was too old for getting drunk, all three of them got pleasantly tipsy and sat together on the bed, pointing out various artifacts and telling each other their stories.

It was late afternoon when Aramis groaned happily and made to stand. “I suppose we should, y’know. Supper.” He chuckled. Just then Olivier crept back into the room. His hair was a mess; he’d acquired his father’s habit of running a hand through it when concentrating, and often did so while drawing. There was a paper in his hand.

“Are you all moved in, d’Artagnan?”

D’Artagnan grinned. “I’m all moved in, Ollie. I suppose you’re out a guest room.”

Olivier smiled. “It’s a very good reason to be. I-- I drew you something. For a moving-in gift. I hope you like it. I usually draw things about the distillery but I thought-- even though you’re here now, and even though the war was awfully bad, I know you liked being a musketeer too, so I drew something to remind you--”

There was nothing more adorable than when Olivier babbled, though it did not happen often, and d’Artagnan was grinning like a fool already as he accepted the drawing from the timidly blushing artist. Perhaps it was his pauldron, or musket, or a child’s dream of Paris--

No. It was none of those. The picture was of four men, arms around one another, backs to the spectator. “I can’t do faces very well,” Olivier mumbled, “and I’ve never seen Monsieur Athos’ face in any case, so I did you all turned ‘round--”

It didn’t matter. It was _them_ , faces or no-- it was the four of them, standing shoulder to shoulder. In the center was a broad, tall man with curly hair, half-hugging those beside him. To his one side was a shorter man with a cocksure pose and a rosary dangling from one wrist, and to his other side was a lanky man with straight hair all the way down his back. D’Artagnan choked out a little laugh at this.

And there, to the other side of this wild-tressed, charcoal d’Artagnan-- was Athos.

He had been drawn from no more than Aramis’ brief description. Really, although he was rendered short and slight and wavy-haired, it was not a perfect likeness-- Olivier had not known to include the stiff neck, the long hands, the tightly nipped-in waist. And yet, it was Athos. D’Artagnan felt sure that if the man in the drawing could come alive, could turn to him, that he would see the familiar face staring back.

The image blurred. D’Artagnan passed it to Aramis, who held it between himself and Porthos so that they could both look their fill. When they raised their heads, their eyes were limpid.

They seemed to make the decision as one, and, as one, d’Artagnan, Aramis, and Porthos let their tears fall. Olivier glanced around, alarmed. Then he too began to weep, looking disappointed and confused, and when they realized their mistake they all flung themselves down on their knees and threw their arms around him.

“Ollie, _hijo mío_ , no, don’t cry,” Aramis was bawling. “We _love_ it, we’re _happy_ , don’t cry”-- even though he himself was crying harder than d’Artagnan had ever before known him to.

“All right,” Olivier bleated, and only wept more fervently. He and Aramis had their arms wrapped tightly around one another; Porthos was hugging the boy from behind. D’Artagnan clung to Porthos, hiccupping into his neck.

“We’re bein’ proper fools right now,” Porthos managed. “The lot of us.” And they were. D’Artagnan knew that they were all weeping for the same reason-- all four of them-- but did not know if that reason was joy or sorrow or simply that everything was too much, too much, not in a good or a bad way, just in a way that demanded some sort of release.

Later, after they’d quieted, after they’d disentangled with mild bellyaches and a collective sense of relief, after Aramis had made them all blow their noses and drink a cup of water and eat a cobbled-together supper-- they sat on the benches in front of the fire, looking at the picture propped up on the shelf.

“I’ll make a frame for it tomorrow,” d’Artagnan vowed. “I’ll put it on the shelf out here so everyone can look at it, if that’s all right?”

Olivier, who had barely left Aramis’ arms from the start and now sat in his lap, nodded sleepily. Porthos, at d’Artagnan’s side, reached over to slap his back. “But you know, Ollie, my hair wasn’t actually _that_ long.”

“Are you sure about that?” Aramis asked.

“Yeah, I think you might be misrememberin’, pup,” Porthos added.

“I’m told the ladies of the court were quite eager to know how you go it so shiny.”

“Like a horse’s mane, it was. Somethin’ to behold.”

“I always wanted to brush it. Did I ever tell you that?”

“So did I!”

D’Artagnan let out a huff of laughter and laid head on Porthos shoulder. “You still could. If you wanted to.” Porthos shook his head, but then brought up a hand and began to run his fingers through the hair that was no longer shoulder-length, but still plenty long enough to be combed.

Ollie smiled at the antics, half asleep now. D’Artagnan closed his eyes and let himself savor the feeling of Porthos’ soothing touch, certain that he too could fall asleep here, until Porthos barked out a laugh and smacked him. “You ain’t sleepin’ on me. Get t’bed.”

D’Artagnan grunted in disapproval, and snaked his arms around Porthos’ middle.

“Ollie gets carried to bed.”

“Ollie weighs a _bit_ less than you do, pup.”

“ _Ngh_. Fine. See you in the morning.” He didn’t know why he needed a confirmation of something so obvious, but he did, and Porthos seemed to know that.

“See you in the mornin’,” he murmured, and Aramis called over, “sleep well, d’Artagnan,” and Olivier said nothing because he was asleep.

D’Artagnan shuffled to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter to post after the “announcement” that series three will be the last… I feel like I should say something about it but I really don’t have words. This is happening at a time of imminent change in my personal life too, so I’m honestly pretty gloomy over it. Not to mention this is the fandom that inspired me to write FIVE long stories in well under two years (that’s a lot for me), three of which are 40k+ and one of which (this one) is turning out probably 70k+. No other show has ever inspired me to write this much. I’m not even sure I knew I could do that. I owe the Musketeers a lot… so sorry to know this series will be our last with the boys <3
> 
> Well, anyway. Translations.
> 
> Spanish  
>  _hijo mío_ = my son (thanks very much to Roar for helping me with the correct Spanish here!)
> 
> French  
>  _cheri_ = dear (I really like the thought of all of them having a different endearment for Ollie)  
>  _Cannelle_ = cinnamon
> 
> Gascon  
>  _Cima_ = mountaintop  
>  _Mirga_ = mouse  
>  _Gahús_ = owl  
>  _Que m’apèri_ = My name is  
>  _Que m’apèri Charles d’Artagnan. Que m'hè gai de t'veder, Olivier d’Herblay._ = My name is Charles d’Artagnan. Pleased to meet you, Olivier d’Herblay.


	6. Chapter 6

Harvest was fast approaching.

Oliver’s Gascon lessons were going well. Aramis was right: he was absolutely delighted at the prospect of learning, a language especially, and in the midst of the pre-harvest scramble he still skipped eagerly around, naming things and reporting their colors in a surprisingly graceful accent. Aramis had been right as well about how much it would mean to d’Artagnan. Olivier was far from being able to carry on a full conversation, but there was something lovely about being able to greet someone in his mother tongue again. He found himself remembering more and more that he’d forgotten. And as this stirred in him, along with the sights and sounds of life in the country, something deep inside him eased a little further. 

Aramis began to test the plums. He passed hours each sweltering day wandering the orchard thoughtfully, picking fruits at random and studying them intently before taking a big bite. He let the mouthful sit a moment before spitting it back out. D’Artagnan enjoyed following him around while he did this, at once charmed by his intensity and amused by the fact that he was basically running around spitting gobs of plum and muttering to himself while he did so.

Porthos’ work began in full force as well. He spent his days writing letters to their patrons and distributors, composing careful balance sheets of the money they expected to make that year. He also briefed d’Artagnan on what his own duties would be. “At first we’re all doin’ the same thing, an’ that’s pickin’,” he explained. “But after a week, Aramis gets up to the distillery an’ we pretty much don’t see him ‘til September. I’ll be cannin’, an’ then once the customers start replyin’ I’ll work with them. You’re gonna make sure the harvest gets finished, an’ bring the fruit to the markets. You’ll watch over the farmhands too.”

D’Artagnan was glad for the thought of finally pulling his own weight; he’d been cooking, seeing to some of the animals, and was thinking about starting a garden, but still he’d felt lazy. Now, with the busiest months upon them, _lazy_ did not exist.

Once he’d gotten comfortable with what his own duties would be, learning all he could about plums and practicing hitching and driving the cart-- which was much easier to climb onto than a horse-- d’Artagnan decided he ought to know a bit about the other jobs as well.

At his request, Aramis showed him around the distillery. He’d been there a few times by now, once on the day he’d arrived and besides that to go and fetch Aramis on a few occasions. Still, he’d never properly looked around.

Now, watching Aramis spin about, naming things and tasting things and holding things out for d’Artagnan to smell, it seemed every bit an alchemist’s laboratory-- and Aramis every bit an alchemist. It was charming, and a bit unexpected. He’d never taken Aramis for an unintelligent man, per se, but had always viewed Athos and Porthos as the clever ones of their group. He and Aramis were the men of heart, not of brains. But chemical names and their properties and reactions seemed as natural to Aramis as sharpshooting once had, and d’Artagnan realized that Aramis had simply never been in the right place for showing off this side of himself. D’Artagnan was glad he’d seen it. Anyone who knew the man for nothing but a lover and a fighter should see him like this too, he thought: stained smock over his clothes, hair in a frenzy.

He didn’t expect quite the same excitement from looking over figures. That Porthos had a head for them was something he already knew-- he also knew that he himself did not, at least not naturally. He’d had to acquire one, for requisitions and the like. But that association had only made such work more odious in his mind, and after half an hour of numbers and calculations he was grumpy and ready to be done.

And that’s when he saw it.

“What’s this?” he asked, pulling a map out from under a stack of papers. It showed the region surrounding them, perhaps five days out in each direction. Stars marked the map.

Three stars lay across the Spanish border.

“Map of our customers. Wanna make sure we don’t get in on his brother’s territory-- was one of the agreements for the loan--”

“What are these?” d’Artagnan snapped, jabbing a finger at the three inky stars.

“Oh. We don’t actually go that far in. They ride up an’ meet us near the border, on our side.”

Perhaps Porthos had mistaken for concern his absolute fury.

“You sell to Spain,” he hissed.

“Well-- yeah.”

“You sell to Spain.”

“Not to Phillip, I promise you that.”

“ _We_ are at _war_ with _Spain_!” D’Artagnan heard the shrillness of his voice as it rose to a shout but could do nothing to prevent it.

Aramis came in from the sitting room then. “Everything all right?” he asked. His own voice was cool.

D’Artagnan pushed clumsily back from the table, stalked over to him. “You’re selling brandy across the border,” he growled. “You’re doing business with our _enemy_!”

“D’Artagnan, you need to calm yourself down.”

“No I _don’t_ need to calm myself down! We are at _war_ with Spain!”

“I’ve well aware,” Aramis replied, coldness quickly melting away. “And I have felt the consequences, from both sides.”

“No you _don’t_ know, you’ve been _here_ \--”

“D’Artagnan--”

“ _You don’t know what it was like_!!”

Now Aramis was furious too; good, it made it easier to be furious at him. “I was in the army before your balls dropped, _captain_!” he sneered. “Ever hear of the Huguenot rebellion?”

“Then why the fuck pull something like this? Eh? Are you really so greedy for money now?”

“It isn’t about the _money_!”

“Then what is it about?”

“Decency? The Spanish are people, just like the Protestants.” Aramis’ already-scarlet flush deepened as d’Artagnan scoffed. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m as Spanish as I am French!”

“You’re not! You were raised here!”

“My mother was a Spaniard, and I’m proud to carry that in me!”

“That’s not how you felt ten years ago!”

“ _No_ ,” Aramis replied, “it isn’t. Do you think you’re the only one who’s grown up?”

And then suddenly Aramis did not look angry at all. “I hated that half of myself for a long time. Thank God my mother was not here to see those years. But I know better now. D’Artagnan, Spain is not the enemy. It is Louis’ quest for--”

But d’Artagnan’s own anger had not abated, and that was the last he heard of Aramis’ words as the door slammed shut behind him.

Heart pounding, he stumbled from the house. He made it up the hill and threw himself to the ground, wincing as his bad leg protested the ungraceful movement. Well. He’d been wondering where his temper had got to; for months now he’d been cross at worst, all of his emotional capacity used up with various forms of sadness. But here was the anger, bitterly familiar in his mouth. 

He was shaking; his bad leg felt so weak with it that he doubted he’d be able to stand for a while. His head was spinning. He sucked in breath through clenching teeth. 

Still the twilight air was breezy, soothing his feverish skin like a balm, and eventually d’Artagnan calmed enough to stretch both legs out and sigh deeply. Not long after this he heard the little footsteps. 

“Papá says supper,” Olivier announced, quietly, coming up the hill. 

Olivier deserved a better response than to just be blinked at, but that’s all d’Artagnan felt up to. 

“Would you like a blanket?”

Olivier’s eyes were kind, and d’Artagnan forced himself to speak. 

“Thanks, Ol. But I’m not cold.” He knew he looked the liar; the shaking has lessened somewhat but his hands still trembled. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“I’m sorry, too. It made me sad. You hate the Spanish a lot.”

D’Artagnan winced, feeling the words like a gut punch. Embers of rage still burned, towards Spain and the world at large and yes, at Aramis too-- and yet all he wanted to do was crawl back to the kitchen and fall into Aramis’ arms.

They were quiet a moment. “If Papá is half Spanish, then I’m a quarter,” Olivier reasoned, breaking the silence at last.

“Olivier--”

“No, but it’s true. That’s how figures work. So do you mean I should hate a quarter of myself?”

“No! No, of course not. Olivier, you should never hate any of yourself. I’m-- the things I want to say aren’t coming out well tonight.”

With compassion far beyond his years, Olivier settled down at d’Artagnan’s side and put a hand on his arm.

D’Artagnan sighed. “How mad is your father with me?”

“He isn’t mad. Only worried. He has the same look he does when I have a headache.”

“How mad are you with me?”

“I’m not mad either.” Olivier took his hand away, rested his head against d’Artagnan’s arm instead. “How mad are you with yourself?”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Very.” He let go a long, not entirely steady sigh, and worked his arm out from under Olivier to drape it around the boy’s shoulders instead. “It’s so cold, for summer. You should go inside.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

“I’ll be in in a minute.” He smiled when Olivier peeked up at him, looking unconvinced. “I will, Ol. I’ve just got to--”

But what _did_ he have to do?

“Have you ever had to change your mind about something? I don’t mean make a decision and then make a different one-- I mean actually think differently about something important.”

Olivier frowned as he pondered this. “We thought Sotty was a boy until she had kittens.” Then he smiled a little, shyly. “I know that isn’t what you mean.”

“No,” d’Artagnan agreed, though he smiled back to soften it.

They sat a while in silence. “Did you know that I was born the day before the war began?” Olivier asked, after a time. “I’ve only been alive one day without a war on. And I can’t even remember it.”

“Wars are miserable things, Olivier, but sometimes they’re fought for good reasons.”

“I think you think you have to say that,” Olivier countered fearlessly. “But then why do you hate the Spanish? Shouldn’t it just be a duty to you?”

“It was only duty in the beginning,” d’Artagnan sighed. “I don’t know when it turned into hating.”

“Papá says--”

“Your father used to love to fight, more than anyone,” d’Artagnan snapped, before he could stop himself; then he hung his head, ashamed.

“I know,” Olivier murmured. “He told me that. But told me that he fought so much, he started to not care about it. He said he could feel it start inside of him, and that frightened him. Maybe it turns into different things for everybody. And for you it turned into hating. Or maybe it didn’t.”

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe the Spanish were only standing in the way--

“You said don’t hate yourself. You said, you should _never_ hate _any_ of yourself. That’s exactly how you said it. So why do you?”

Why did he? Why did he hate--

“That’s a very big question from a very small boy.”

Olivier butted his head against d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Well, I won’t make you answer. Can we go eat supper, then? You’re right that it’s cold.”

D’Artagnan bit back a sigh. “Olivier-- my leg feels very weak right now. I think I have to wait a little before I can stand up.”

“Oh. Should I get Uncle Porthos?”

“No, it’s all right. I’m used to it.”

“Can I sit with you until it feels better?”

“You just said that you were cold.”

“But _you’re_ lonely. I think that’s worse than cold.”

D’Artagnan wrapped both arms around Olivier, wishing he had a cloak to give him but also glad of a reason for hugging him so tightly. Olivier rested his forehead on d’Artagnan’s chest. That sat this way a while longer until at last, feeling ready to try, d’Artagnan wiped his eyes and patted Olivier’s head, then got clumsily to his feet.

Back in the kitchen, supper was cooling on the table. Aramis pushed back from his seat and came over to them, but did not make the first move; d’Artagnan did, hurling himself into Aramis’ arms. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “’m so sorry, so fucking sorry--”

Aramis only hushed him, and rubbed his back.

“I’m fine with it. I am. I won’t cause trouble. Please don’t-- please don’t--”

He didn’t finish the thought. “What exactly,” Aramis murmured, “are you afraid of me doing?”

D’Artagnan could only shake his head.

“We’re not sending you away, if that’s what you’re worried about. Oh, _fuck_. I’m so sorry, my friend,” Aramis sighed. “That wasn’t me at my best either. I’m not angry, d’Artagnan, I promise. And even if I were-- this is your home now. Even if we had to glare at each other across the sitting room for a few days-- you’re not going anywhere, do you hear me?”

He pulled away, only far enough to look at each other. Exposed, d’Artagnan hurried wiped his eyes again, as though there were even the slightest chance of hiding his tears. “I don’t hate the Spanish,” he forced out. “And if I do, I don’t want to.”

“That’s as good a place as any to start,” Aramis affirmed. “D’Artagnan, when the war ends, you and I will go to Spain together. I’ll show you the village where my mother was born. We’ll eat food you’ve never heard of. And you’ll see the Spanish for what they really are: God’s children, like you and I, born a few extra leagues to the south. Now sit, please, and eat some supper. We’ve been idiots and Porthos is cross with both of us. Let’s allow the sun to set on this damned day.”

D’Artagnan nodded, too exhausted to argue, and slumped into his chair.

*

One morning a few days later there was a knock at the door. Porthos answered it, and d’Artagnan saw two men standing before it, both young and gangly as new recruits. He leapt up, positioning himself between Olivier and the unexpected strangers. But Porthos greeted them happily, and Olivier looked up from his breakfast and chirped, “hello, Honoré, hello, Jean-Marc, are you going to be helping against this year?”

And that’s how d’Artagnan met his farmhands.

Honoré was a baker’s son from the village, Porthos explained, and Jean-Marc the shoemaker’s; as their own fathers’ professions did not change much with the seasons, they hired themselves out during harvest, and had both been working the distillery for four years now. Both were friendly, and hard workers.

Both, too, seemed tremendously fond of Porthos, and disappointed that they would not be reporting to him directly; Porthos assured them that he would still be around, and that d’Artagnan would do quite well in his stead. D’Artagnan, for his own part, began to feel nervous and a little guilty. But after the boys had left, Porthos looked him straight in the eyes and reminded him, a little sternly, that he’d spend eight years leading scores of musketeers into battle and could surely handle two workers.

“But that’s the thing,” d’Artagnan mumbled. “I don’t want to treat them like soldiers.”

“So don’t. Listen, Honoré doesn’t talk much. Just be polite to ‘im and tell ‘im what to do, an’ he’s happy just gettin’ to it. Jean-Marc, though, he’s gonna talk your ear off. He’s courtin’ the tanner’s daughter, has been forever, so just ask about that an’ let him ramble.”

“Mm. Because courting has always been a talent of mine.”

Porthos frowned. Under his scrutiny, d’Artagnan turned aside and began to rub his leg; it hurt, and he was in poorer mood than usual, though which was causing which he could not say. Perhaps the initial balm of life at the distillery was just wearing off. In the end he was still both a cripple and an emotional wreck, and ever since his outburst a few days earlier he had been hit hard by the knowledge that simply running away from Paris had not unburdened him of every weight after all.

“Hey,” Porthos murmured. At the perfect gentility in his voice, d’Artagnan found himself able to turn back around. “We ain’t asked you ‘bout Constance ‘cause it’s seemed like you ain’t wanted to say. But when you say things like that, makes me feel like I should ask.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “What happened was that she finally realized what I’d known all along.”

“What?”

“That she deserved better. Than Bonacieux _or_ me. She married some doctor, in the end. Poor Lemay. If he’d been alive it’d probably have been him. She’s happy now. She’s still the queen’s attendant but everyone knows she’s her chief advisor in all but name. Her children are the dauphin’s playmates.”

“All things considered, you seem pretty calm ‘bout it.”

“It was a long time ago by now. And I’m happy for her. Really.”

Porthos reached up and patted his cheek. “All grown up,” he sighed, and d’Artagnan smiled a little, albeit sadly. “I shouldn’t’ve asked, huh?”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m just in a bad mood. I don’t know why. I have no reason to be.”

“Last time I checked you didn’t need a reason. Hey, how ‘bout you go sew those pumpkins you were talkin’ about?”

D’Artagnan nodded, deciding that he’d be glad of the distraction. Starting a garden now, right before the plum harvest, might have been a bit unwise, but he wanted to get to know the soil now to be better able to plant on time next year. Not to mention he’d missed it for over a decade now.

And it did cheer him up a little, at least bringing him to a feeling of peacefulness, to hold a trowel in his hand, drip sweat into the dirt. He’d finish sewing this week. Then the garden would need only a little attention while the plums harvest went on, and they’d have pumpkins for the beginning of autumn. He’d taken over a patch of land on the opposite side of the house from the barn. From there he could see nearly every corner of the distillery, and the loveliness of this soothed him as well, as the day slipped by.

The sun was right overhead when footsteps pattered up beside him.

“D’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan cast aside his gardening tools and squinted up into Olivier’s pale eyes. “Hey, _pichon frair_. Are you all right?” For Olivier looked a little edgy, a little glum. Maybe it was just a day for it.

Olivier nodded. “I’m all right.”

“Something on your mind?”

“A little bit. But I’m not really ready to talk about it.”

Despite his worry, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile. Solemnity was not a new trait for his friend, but total openness was, and there were times he realized that he really was speaking to Athos-- but to a different version of Athos, one who’d been raised in a happy, loving home.

“That’s fine, Ol. _Hè calor, o_?”

Olivier plopped down in the dirt beside him.

“ _O. Tan calor_.”

“ _Tan caud_ ,” d’Artagnan corrected. Olivier nodded, storing this away; then he put his palms to the dirt and patted it gently.

“Would my name be different in Gascon?” he asked, after a short time had passed. “You know, I mean-- in Spanish, my name is _Oliviero_.”

“Almost the same. It would be _Olivièr_. Hear it? You say the _r_ a lot more.”

Olivier repeated this, then wrinkled his nose. “I sort of like it but I sort of don’t. Is your name different in Gascon?”

“Well, d’Artagnan isn’t, but Charles is a little different too. It’s _Carles_.”

“Is that what your papa called you?”

“My father and I mostly spoke French,” d’Artagnan replied thoughtfully. “He called me Charlot. My mother called me Carles, though.”

Olivier blushed a little at this, seeming like he wanted to ask more but holding himself back. “It’s all right,” d’Artagnan soothed. “Talking about my parents doesn’t make me as sad as it used to.”

Olivier nodded, and leaned his head against d’Artagnan’s arm. Still he stayed silent.

“You papa’s name in Gascon would be Renat,” d’Artagnan said breaking the silence a few minutes later. “His Christian name, I mean, not _Aramis_. I don’t think your uncle’s name would be any different. At least if it is, I’ve never heard it.”

“I like names,” Olivier mumbled pensively. “And I like it when people have different ones. When they really use different ones, I mean. It makes them seem so interesting. Like there’s parts of them you can’t see all at the same time. And then other people can chose what name to use, and those choices mean something. Do you have any other names?”

“Besides the nicknames your uncle calls me?”

“He calls you pup,” Olivier reflected, his voice impossibly fond. “It means you found him and Papá like a stray puppy. And then you stayed.”

D’Artagnan laughed. “That’s basically it, yeah. But no, I don’t have any other names. Not like your papa and uncle do. Charles d’Artagnan. _Carles_ d’Artagnan. That’s me.”

“Do you miss being called Carles?”

“Not very much. I can barely remember it.”

“Do you miss being called Charlot?”

The pain that flashed through him was sharp, but clean somehow, staying neatly together instead of spreading out through him. “Mm. Yeah, I do.”

“Can I call you that? Maybe only sometimes?”

The request surprised him, but there was nobody in the world to which d’Artagnan would rather pass rights to the use of that nickname.

“Sure. It might catch me off-guard the first time, but yes, I’m all right with that.”

Olivier smiled. “Hm. I don’t have any other names. Ol, Ollie, Olivier. Maybe someday I’ll have another.”

“You don’t need another.”

“Well sometimes I think Papá thinks my name really is _hijo mío_.”

“That means he’s very happy to have a son,” d’Artagnan mused. “Very happy to have you for a son.”

Rather than look heartened by this, Olivier began to fiddle with the lace of his shoe. “That reminds me of what I was thinking about before. I think I’m ready now.”

D’Artagnan nudged him gently. “All right.”

“Do you remember what I said-- that I like to know the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it hurts?”

D’Artagnan felt himself frowning. “Yes. What is it, Olivier?”

“I have another question about Athos. I thought of it when I gave you your picture-- and now I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

“All right. Just come out and ask it, Ollie, I won’t get upset.” He reached over and laid his less dirty hand over Olivier’s fidgety fingers.

“I don’t all-the-way believe you,” Olivier replied. “Anytime I bring up Athos, you end up crying.”

“I cry all the time.”

“I know. Far more than Uncle.”

D’Artagnan smiled, and tapped his fingertips against Olivier’s. “The thing is, it’s good for me. Maybe it isn’t happy crying, but it’s something I need to do. Does that make sense?”

“It does. I know. But I want to make sure that you really mean it.”

“I do, Ol. You can ask me whatever you want to ask me.”

“All right. I wanted to know--”

A few ideas passed through d’Artagnan’s head as to what the question might be, chief among them being where Athos had actually gone when he’d had to go _far away_. But then Olivier opened his mouth, and what came out was:

“Is Athos my father?”

That, d’Artagnan had not been expecting.

“If Papá’s not my real father, I promise, I won’t love him any less!” Olivier cried. “I mean, Uncle’s not my real uncle, you know, and I love him just the same. And you aren’t my real brother but I love you to pieces! It’s just-- only-- we don’t really look alike, do we? Papá and I. I’m rather fair and Papá’s a bit darker, and his hair and eyes are almost black. And, you know, he says it’s because my mother was blonde but we don’t even have the same look in our faces, because mine is round and his is narrow, and even our hands aren’t shaped alike; there’s nothing, there’s just nothing that makes us look alike!”

Olivier was flushed. D’Artagnan stroked a thumb along the little wrist, shaken not only by the question but by the near-panic on Olivier’s countenance. But Olivier did not pause long enough for him to do more than this.

“And then you all said Monsieur Athos had blue eyes and pale skin and a split in his lip as well, and-- well, that would be very like Papá, wouldn’t it? If my mother and father both died. He’s the kind of man who’d take me in, isn’t he? Call me his son because I still look more like him than I do Uncle Porthos? They’re both that sort of man. They left the musketeers to raise me. Athos was my father, wasn’t he, d’Artagnan?”

“Hey,” d’Artagnan soothed. Olivier’s hand was beginning to tremble in his. “Hey, Ollie, it’s all right. Take a deep breath, _pichon frair_.”

Olivier did so, gasping in a childishly huge gulp of air and letting it back out in a shaky sigh. “It isn’t only how we look, though,” he continued, a bit calmer now. “I have this dream. I’ve had it my whole life. I never knew who the man in it was, but now I know it’s him. It’s Athos. Nothing much happens in it. He only comes to me and says hello. Sometimes he puts his hand on my shoulder. But I feel like I know him-- so well, you know, like I’ve known him forever. I’ve never told Papá or Uncle. It doesn’t feel wrong but it does feel like a secret. Well. Aren’t you going to say anything?”

At a loss, d’Artagnan huffed out a laugh. He pulled the boy close, squeezing him gently as he snuggled up to d’Artagnan’s chest. “All right. It’s all right. If you can’t say,” Olivier whispered, “I understand. Really I do. Thank you for listening, d’Artagnan. I needed somebody to say it all to.”

“You’re welcome,” d’Artagnan whispered back. “I’m here if you need me, Olivier. I promise.”

Olivier nodded and pulled away. He was smiling-- but all at once, while pushing to his feet, he swayed a little.

“Are you getting a headache?” d’Artagnan prompted, and the boy nodded. “Let’s get you back to the house then. Can you walk?”

“I can but, um-- it feels better if somebody carries me?”

“At your service,” d’Artagnan teased. Olivier smiled tiredly, all Athos for a moment. Then he raised his arms, a child once again, and d’Artagnan scooped him up and cradled him once more to his chest.

He took great care as he walked the short span back to the main house. He caught sight of Aramis, on the way back down from the distillery, but hesitated to call for him, lest the noise disturb the child in his arms. Aramis noticed in any case, and jogged over.

“We were in the garden when he started feeling poorly,” d’Artagnan explained, and Aramis kissed Olivier’s forehead gently before taking him into his own arms.

“Has the pain started yet?” he whispered to the boy.

“Only just.”

“All right. To bed with us, then. Thanks,” he added to d’Artagnan, and whisked Olivier off to the main house.

Unaccountably bereft, d’Artagnan wandered down to the orchards and roamed the rows of trees until he found Porthos again, frowning at section of brownish leaves.

“Aphids,” the man grunted, when he saw him. He plucked a dying leaf and displaying it to d’Artagnan; the curled edges crumbled as he closed his hand around it.

“We never had aphids, with the type of crops we grew. How bad does it look?”

“‘snot bad, yet. Just gotta keep an eye on this section, worry ‘bout it if it spreads. Good thing we’re harvestin’ soon. You feel any better?”

“Yeah. A bit. But Olivier’s got a headache.”

Porthos’ face fell, and d’Artagnan felt a stab of guilt at seeking him out for comfort when clearly his friend was the one who needed it more. “Aramis is with him,” he added quickly. “So does _all_ of this go into the brandy?”

“Hm? Nah. Maybe ‘bout three quarters goes to wine, an’ three quarters a’ that to brandy. We preserve a lot, too. That’s what Ollie and I spend our time doin’, while monsieur distiller’s locked away in his laboratory. This year we were thinkin’ of tryin’a dry some too. An’ a’course there’s always leftovers, an’ we spent a few weeks eatin’ ‘em with every damn meal.” He was smiling again, much to d’Artagnan’s relief. “Plum soup; plum puddin’; plum an’ duck; plums, y’know, just as plums.”

“Well everyone’s bowels must be in excellent form around here,” d’Artagnan deadpanned, and Porthos chuckled.

“I’m sick t’death of them come October. But then summer rolls around again and I’m chompin’ at the bit for ‘em. But I’ll be happy for some pumpkin soup this year, too.”

“Me too. Should we get back up to the house?”

Porthos nodded, and together they trekked back up the hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Gascon
> 
>  _pichon frair_ = little brother  
>  _Hè calor, o?_ = It’s hot, yes?  
>  _O. Tan calor._ = Yes. Very heat.  
>  _Tan caud._ = Very hot.
> 
> French
> 
>  _Charlot_ = diminutive of Charles (Charlie, I suppose, in translation… I just love the idea of d’Art being Charlie to his father, once upon a time)
> 
> Historical note:
> 
> When Aramis refers to serving in the army during the Huguenot rebellion, he is referring to is the 1620-1622 rebellion of Protestants against the Catholic monarchy (there was in fact more than one; this was the first). In the first episode he tells Adele about an injury he received at “Montauban, in ’21”. Montauban was the location of a major siege in this rebellion so it would seem that Aramis spent at least some of his pre-musketeers army service involved in this conflict.


	7. Chapter 7

The night passed uneasily, like it always did when Olivier had a headache, especially after the sound of retching from within alerted them that it was a big one. D’Artagnan felt more prepared than he’d been months ago-- but only marginally.

Porthos paced gloomily, stopping before the shelves every three or four rounds to stare at the picture Olivier had given d’Artagnan for his moving in, now framed and displayed front and center. Eventually he threw himself down at d’Artagnan’s side. “How can somebody with so much goodness in ‘em end up saddled with so much pain? ‘slike no matter what he does-- no matter if he gets _poisoned_ and turns back into a fuckin’ _infant_ , he’ll still end up in pain.”

Porthos let his head fall into his hands. D’Artagnan put a hand on his back but simply let it sit there, wrapped up in his own bitter ruminations. This time there was no denying that the headache was his fault. Olivier had gotten himself worked up tremendously, and d’Artagnan simply had not calmed him down well enough. He wanted to confess, wanted somebody else to help him carry this burden. But that would involve telling Porthos of Olivier’s question, and he wasn’t sure if he was meant to do so or not.

Eventually Aramis came to tell them that Olivier was sleeping. At this point there were only a few hours until dawn, and when d’Artagnan woke to the familiar crowing, it seemed as though he had not slept at all.

Still he hauled himself to the barn to do Olivier’s chores. His thoughts were still dark, and his leg still ached, but he tried to distract himself by wondering what picture Olivier would draw for him this time. He always drew one when d’Artagnan did his chores for him. D’Artagnan had insisted that this wasn’t necessary before realizing that it was just another excuse to draw for him, and that Olivier wanted to anyway. Last time it had been a pumpkin, he remembered, and smiled.

Once the milk and eggs had been hauled back to the house, and the cats fed and played with, and the horses brushed, d’Artagnan went back to his garden to sew the last handful of seeds. Again, it worked to calm him. By the time he was done, he felt ready to eat something, and went back up to the house.

Aramis was slouched at the kitchen table, eyes dim, hair a mess. “Hey,” d’Artagnan greeted him, squeezing his shoulder. “Want some eggs?”

Aramis nodded, apparently exhausted beyond words. D’Artagnan gripped his shoulder another moment before lighting a fire and cooking a few eggs, three for himself and three for Aramis. He hadn’t seen Porthos since they’d done the linens together at sunrise. He hoped the man had not neglected to eat some breakfast as well, though Porthos did tend to take better care of himself than any of the rest of them.

“Thanks,” Aramis rasped, when he’d finished eating. “I--”

Just then Olivier’s voice filtered in from the other room. Biting back a sigh, Aramis filled a cup with water and disappeared; d’Artagnan cleaned the dishes and thought about finding Porthos.

But Aramis returned a few minutes later. D’Artagnan looked up to inquire how Olivier was doing-- and stopped dead. Far from tired now, Aramis looked angry. In fact, brow crunched, face ruddy, Aramis looked _pissed_.

He stalked to d’Artagnan and leaned close, hissing out a whisper as furious as it was quiet.

“ _What did you tell him_?”

“What do you mean?” D’Artagnan’s heart began pounding.

“I mean that _my son_ just thanked me for taking care of him-- that’s not something a child says to a father! He knows. He knows I’m not his birth father!”

“Aramis, calm down,” d’Artagnan said firmly, refusing to back away. “We were talking yesterday. He-- thinks Athos is his father. He asked me about it yesterday.”

Aramis eased up, but only barely. “He thinks-- what?”

D’Artagnan took a chance and reached out for Aramis’ arm; Aramis let him put a hand to his elbow, but seemed only to permit, not to take comfort. “Yesterday, in the garden, he asked me if Athos was his father.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He can see that he doesn’t look like you. And I told him-- I told him a while ago, about Athos’ lip. And he sees how much remembering Athos affects us. I don’t know. He just-- pieced it together. He thinks Athos is his father.”

Aramis sagged fully in on himself now. “Hey,” d’Artagnan soothed. “Do you know the first thing he told me? That it didn’t matter. That he loves you just as much as ever.”

“I know that,” Aramis snapped, and d’Artagnan took his hand away; he’d assumed that had been the main thought in Aramis’ mind, but maybe not.

“What’s wrong?” d’Artagnan prompted.

“What did you say when he asked?”

“Honestly, nothing. He just sort of-- spat it all out. I didn’t say anything, and he said he understood why I couldn’t. He just thanked me for listening. But he did come away thinking he was right. He doesn’t know the truth!”

“This is the start of it!” Aramis wailed. “This is how he’ll find out!”

“How? How’s he gonna find out?”

“He knows I’m not his father now. It will all unravel from here.”

“But _how_!? How would he go from here to there? Even I can’t keep it in my head half the time.”

The flush of anger was gone from Aramis’ features now, replaced by an awful pallor. He did not reply to this, only opened his mouth and choked out, “I never wanted him to know. I never wanted him to question how much I love him.”

D’Artagnan laid the hand back on his friend’s arm. “He doesn’t question it, Aramis,” he soothed. “He doesn’t question that at all. Look, relax, all right? If he thinks Athos is his father, if he thinks it ends there, fine. Why would he ever stop to question? It’s an absurd thought anyway, that he _is_ Athos.”

Behind them there came a gasp, and the sound of a cup breaking, and d’Artagnan’s heart sunk faster than it ever had before. The two of them turned to see Olivier standing in the doorway.

For a moment he did not react, and Aramis began to step towards him, call his name softly-- but Olivier moved away. “What do you mean?” he whispered.

“ _Hijo mío_ , you need to get back to bed. You were very sick last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Olivier--”

“I-- am Athos?”

“Don’t be silly, Ollie--”

“I am Athos.”

“Olivier, come away from the cup. It’s all right, _querido_ , all I meant was--”

“Don’t lie to me! It’s _true_ , I know it is! You say a thing-- you say a thing and sometimes it’s just _true_!”

“Ollie--”

“No. _No_! I want my uncle. _Where’s my uncle_?”

“Olivier--”

“Uncle! _Uncle Porthos_!”

Olivier’s face was pale, and he was shaking head to toe; d’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to rush over and scoop him up, but Olivier moved farther every time either of them tried to approach him. D’Artagnan could not bring himself to look over at Aramis yet. Could not bring himself to see both sides of the agony that had just occurred, the agony that he himself had brought down upon the beautiful distillery--

The door slammed open. Oliver stumbled dizzily to Porthos’ side; Porthos swung he boy into his arms in one smooth motion, jumping a little to heft him further up his chest. Olivier buried his face in Porthos’ neck and burst into tears. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong, _cheri_?” Porthos murmured. “I’ve got you, Ollie, it’s all right. Anybody wanna tell me what’s goin’ on ‘round here?”

“He knows.”

“Knows what?”

“He _knows_ ,” Aramis repeated, and Porthos’ eyes widened.

“All right. All right. I’m here, _cheri_. Let’s get some fresh air, yeah? I’ve got you, c’mon.” With a reassuring nod to d’Artagnan and Aramis, he spirited the boy away, out of the house and into the yard beyond.

The door bounced once before it shut. In the time this took d’Artagnan had already grabbed hold of Aramis’ arms and was lowering him gently into a kitchen chair. The strength of his shaking was nearly vicious. D’Artagnan crouched down beside him and hugged him tightly; Aramis did not react, not even to lean forward in the smallest amount. It was as though he knew nothing.

D’Artagnan let him go and leaned back. Aramis’ face was blank, his eyes unfocused; d’Artagnan drew up another chair, sat across from him, and took his friend’s hands into his own. Aramis’ eyes slipped shut. Slowly, keeping his fingers curled around Aramis’ own, d’Artagnan used his thumbs to rub circles over Aramis’ clammy palms.

Finally Aramis let out a tiny sigh. “I suppose I knew this would happen eventually,” he croaked. D’Artagnan leaned forward and bundled him close again. This time Aramis tipped up against him, head knocking solidly onto his shoulder; d’Artagnan held him tightly as he pressed his face into d’Artagan’s collar and murmured a quiet Spanish prayer.

“It’s all right, Aramis,” d’Artagnan soothed. “It’s going to be all right.”

The prayer ended. Aramis sucked in a massive, gusting breath, so sharp and sudden that d’Artagnan was sure his friend would burst into sobs, or perhaps be sick. Instead Aramis found the strength to pull back from d’Artagnan’s arms. “Let’s go,” he rasped.

D’Artagnan helped him to the door, then kept an arm around him as they made their way out of the main house to look for Olivier and Porthos. But they hadn’t gone far, only up the little hill that overlooked the orchard. Olivier was sitting with his legs drawn up, head resting on his knees; Porthos was at his side, arm tucked tightly around him. He smiled thinly as d’Artagnan and Aramis approached.

“Olivier?”

The boy raised his head to Porthos’ gentle voice. His nose was red and runny, his cheeks streaked with drying tears; he caught sight of Aramis, and began to cry again. Aramis lurched in d’Artagnan’s grip.

“Olivier.” Porthos had not taken his arm from around the shaking shoulders, and now he squeezed all the tighter. “I think your papa could use a hug from you right now. An’ I think you could use one from him, too.”

The hope on Aramis’ face was nearly painful to witness. He stepped forward, knelt, and spread his arms open; for a long moment Olivier just stared, tears growing messier and messier, until at last he sprang to his feet and flung himself at Aramis. Aramis grabbed him up, hugged him close.

“ _Hijo mío_ ,” Aramis breathed. “ _Nunca_ _quería que supieras_. I never wanted you to be anything but my little boy, Olivier.”

“Papá,” Olivier wailed. “Papá, Papá, _Pap_ _á_ \--”

“ _Shh_ , Olivier, catch your breath. Cry all you need to, but calm down a little or the headache will come back.” Aramis sank down to the ground, carefully pulling the boy along with him; Olivier settled heavily against his chest, sniffling and whimpering as he tried to quiet his tears. For a while they sat, unspeaking, as the sorrow drained from him. Then at last it was over, and Olivier scrubbed his eyes with his fists and blew his nose with the hanky that Porthos, sitting beside them again, handed him.

“Feelin’ better, _cheri_?” Porthos prompted. Olivier nodded. His shoulders jerked with quiet hiccups, the tell-tale sign of a body trying to remember what it felt like not to cry. But he did seem calmer.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t’ve gotten so angry. Only it surprised me, a _lot_ , and my belly still felt kind of sick, and--”

“It scared you,” Porthos finished. “It’s all right. ‘snormal, gettin’ angry when you’re scared.”

“Are you feeling sick now, _hijo mío_?” Aramis asked.

“I just feel tired. And still a little sad.”

“You’re sad because we lied to you.”

Visibly pondering his answer, the boy pushed himself out of Aramis’ lap; Porthos budged over a bit to allow space for Olivier between them. D’Artagnan had yet to sit, and knew he should move farther away. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to, and so settled heavily at Porthos’ other side.

“No,” Olivier said at last. “It’s hard for me to explain, why I feel sad. But it isn’t because of that.”

“‘sall right if it was,” Porthos soothed, stroking through Olivier’s hair with one big hand.

“It isn’t, though. Really. Only, only-- I’m going to have to be him again. I’m going to grow up and be Athos. And then I won’t be your son or your nephew anymore. I’ll only be your friend.”

Olivier’s voice cracked, but it was Porthos now who blinked away tears. “‘f that’s what it is then don’t you worry, _cheri_. You might be Athos but you’re still jus’ eight years old! You’re my nephew an’ you’re Papa’s son an’ you’re d’Artagnan’s little brother, an’ nothin’s really changin’.”

“I think it’s going to,” Olivier whispered. “I think everything’s going to change now.” Then his face softened. “I’m sorry, Uncle Porthos. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“‘sall right, Ollie. Guess we’re all a li’l sad today, huh?” Porthos smiled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Tell you what, how ‘bout we have some lunch and then Papa can read to us?”

“No. I-- I want to know the truth now.” He turned to Aramis. “I want to know the truth now, Papá. All of it. How-- how did I--?” He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “ _Quiero la verdad, Pap_ _á. Toda la verdad_.”

Aramis sighed. With one last glance, nearly of apology, at Porthos and d’Artagnan, he began.

“Your name is Olivier d’Athos de la Fere. You were born the 22nd of September, 1595.”

Olivier thought for a short moment. “Forty-four, then,” he said. “About to turn forty-five.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m older than you,” Olivier whispered. “I’m-- the oldest-- of all of us.”

“Yes.”

For a moment d’Artagnan thought the boy would cry again, but he did not, merely nodding for Aramis to continue.

“You became a lieutenant in the musketeers around the same time I received my commission, and both of us just a few months before Porthos. Before long we three were known as _les Inseparables_ \-- never seen one without the others. For seven years we fought side-by-side. We saw each other through a lot of hard times. D’Artagnan joined us after five years, and then we were four.”

Without turning away from Aramis and Olivier, Porthos reached over and rubbed d’Artagnan’s back. D’Artagnan let his eyes slip shut, but for a moment only.

“Towards the end of those years, the king came under the influence of a madman named Rochefort. Rochefort was hell bent on destroying the king and winning the queen, and when we stood against him, it-- nearly destroyed us. In the end we killed him. But I myself was so-- pained in the process, I resigned my commission to live at a monastery.”

Olivier’s eyes darkened at the mention of Aramis’ troubles, but he said nothing.

“The same day you were promoted to captain. That night we sat together as I packed my things. There was much to celebrate, but it didn’t feel that way, _hijo mío_. It felt like everything was breaking. And then a messenger delivered a bottle of Anjou wine to the door with no note attached. We assumed that it was from a friend, to help us either mourn or celebrate. But it must have been Rochefort, reaching out from beyond the grave. The messenger must have been one of his minions. But we did not stop to think. Athos-- well, _you_ \-- drank first.” Aramis’ gaze was far away now. “And not a moment later there was a babe on the floor, in a puddle of your clothes, small and red as though he had only just arrived.

“There was only one thing to do. Porthos resigned his commission as well and we left Paris to raise you in the country. The rest you know.”

Oliver settled his chin on his knees and frowned, looking for an instant as though no more were on his mind than another math problem. “It was a poison.”

“Like none we’d ever seen, but yes.”

“This was-- a bad thing?”

“No, _hijo mío_!” Aramis cried, then schooled himself. “No, no, Olivier. Every day has been a blessing. Every moment with you. You-- are different than you were, and yes, sometimes we miss the man we called Athos. But we love you as Olivier just as dearly, and with just the same piece of our hearts.”

“We do,” Porthos affirmed quietly.

“You can ask us more later, if you like,” Aramis soothed. “But that is the story of everything important for now.”

Olivier nodded, then sat silently a long moment. The sun blazed. The wind carried the smell of ripening plums.

“Shall we go inside now?” Aramis prompted gently.

Olivier it his lip. “Actually, I hoped I could take Miel out. I, um, I think I want to be alone for a little while.”

The look on both the men’s faces told d’Artagnan quite clearly that Olivier had never made this request before. “That’s fine, _hijo mío_ ,” Aramis said at last. “But wouldn’t you like to eat a bit first?”

“I’m not hungry. Is that all right?”

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance, and it was Porthos who finally replied. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘sall right, Ollie. Just don’t stay out more’n an hour, please. You still had a headache yesterday, don’t forget.”

“All right.”

The four of them got to their feet, then Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan stood staring as Olivier shuffled up the path to the horse enclosure, disappeared behind the barn for a minute, and then reappeared atop his pony.

He looked in their direction and nodded, then rode off towards the trees.

Fresh tears welled up in Porthos’ eyes, wavered there a long moment, then spilled silently down his cheeks. Aramis went to him and pulled him close. For a moment Porthos did not react; then he sighed, a deep, drawn-out sound, and when the sigh ended he had wilted against Aramis’ shoulder.

The two men held each other a long while. Then they traipsed back down to the house, where Aramis poured three cups of brandy and drank his own down in an uncharacteristic gulp. Porthos did the same. D’Artagnan only stared down at his, at the finely crafted drink that his friends were tossing back like water, and did not lift the cup until Aramis touched a hand to his back and ordered him to do so.

A few minutes passed in miserable silence. Then Aramis stood and left the kitchen; d’Artagnan heard him go through the sitting room and down the hallway to his bedroom. Porthos saw to the broken cup, then did the same. D’Artagnan poured and drank another gulp of brandy, then limped to his own bedroom and threw himself on top of the sunny yellow quilt.

More time passed. The enormity of what he’d done loomed like a boulder so big that he could hardly comprehend it, could only stare up at it in hapless confusion.

A while later there was a knock. Aramis opened the door, looking as though he’d aged a decade in the time they’d been apart; he did not meet d’Artagnan’s eye.

“It’s been over two hours,” he muttered. “We need to go after him.”

When they went back into the hallway, Porthos was already there. “I know,” he said, before Aramis could speak. “Let’s go.”

Moving as one, they went to the horse enclosure; Aramis swung onto Brandy and Porthos mounted Nuage then reached down to help d’Artagnan do the same. They set off at a gallop on the same path that Olivier had taken. The day was scorchingly hot now, and sweat stung d’Artagnan’s eyes as he forced them not to squint, to scan every small span of space before them. They rode a few minutes. Begrudgingly they slowed the horses down to a canter; pressed up against his back, d’Artagnan could feel Porthos shaking.

And then, in the distance: Miel, grazing. With a wordless cry, Aramis urged Brandy forward, dismounting before she even came to a stop. D’Artagnan tried to dismount in a similar scramble. He landed on his feet but then fell painfully to his knees; Porthos pulled him up, and together they ran.

Olivier was curled up under the shade of a large tree. One arm covered his eyes while the other held tight to his belly; d’Artagnan’s heart broke to see him in such a state. He was shivering, sweating rivers. Not far from his mouth, pooled in the dirt, was a small puddle of vomit.

“ _Olivier_!” Aramis sobbed, and fell to his knees.

“Papá,” the boy croaked, reaching blindly for his father. “M’ head--”

Aramis whipped around. “He needs to get out of the sun!”

“But ridin’s gonna make him sicker’n anythin’!”

“I’ll take the horse beside you,” Aramis replied quickly. “Walk in the shadow.”

Porthos nodded. He lifted Olivier carefully and settled him against his chest; Olivier’s hand grasped weakly at his shirt, and then went still. Aramis was back on Brandy now. He guided her to them, placing her so that her bulk blocked out the worst of the sun’s light; moving in tiny, steady steps, Porthos began to carry Olivier home.

D’Artagnan tried to keep up, but soon lagged behind. His leg was screaming in agony, and Miel and Nuage were upset and confused at being led side-by-side by the reigns. Soon the others went beyond his view.

By the time he got the horses back to the enclosure and himself back to the house, Aramis and Porthos had already settled Olivier in bed and were cooling him gently with dampened cloths. Olivier was moaning quietly, only half-awake. D’Artagnan stepped towards the bed, stepped back again, then hunkered down against the opposite wall and drew the knee of his good leg up to his chest.

At long last Olivier fell fully asleep. D’Artagnan had lost all sense of time, and the curtains had been drawn over the windows, but his stomach told him that the eggs he’d eaten for breakfast had been a long, long time ago. Not that he was actually hungry. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be properly hungry again.

When Olivier had stayed asleep for a while, Porthos finally spoke. “What the hell happened?” he demanded; his voice was low and d’Artagnan was not sure if it was meant to sound threatening or if it was just coming out that way.

“It’s my fault,” d’Artagnan whispered, hearing his own voice for what felt like the first time in days.

“That isn’t true.” Aramis’ reply was immediate.

“Yesterday”-- _yesterday_?-- “Olivier said he wanted to ask me a question about Athos. He asked me if Athos was his father.”

“An’ this mornin’?”

“D’Artagnan was telling me,” Aramis murmured. “In his explanation, he voiced the truth-- we didn’t realize that Olivier was listening.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes, waiting for the follow-up questions that never came; when he opened his eyes, Porthos was standing at the window, peering out behind the curtain. Aramis had his head down on the mattress beside Olivier’s arm.

D’Artagnan pushed clumsily to his feet and stumbled out the door, down the hallway, and to the washroom; he collapsed beside the chamber pot and sprawled there, waiting to be sick. Nothing came up but a few useless retches. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed tearlessly for a moment, until at last the familiar dispassion that he’d hidden inside of far too often during his captaincy took over. He got to his feet, had a piss. Then he went to the kitchen, fetched the water pail, and went out to the well to draw some water. Outside the sky was black and the moon was high. D’Artagnan lugged the water back into the kitchen, drank a cupful, then poured another two cupfuls and carried them into Olivier’s room.

Aramis’ and Porthos’ smiles were ones of exhaustion and gratitude. A tiny flicker of light crept beneath the sternness, and for a moment d’Artagnan found himself wondering if somehow their friendship could survive this.

The hope did not last long.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to pack his things, set out for Paris, beg on his knees for his old commission back; instead he settled back against the wall again, and tried to sleep a little.

He was drifting, thoughts bleak and muddled, when Olivier woke.

“ _Hijo mío_ ,” Aramis breathed, touching a tentative fingertip to Olivier’s cheek. “Wasn’t expecting those eyes until tomorrow morning. How are you feeling?”

“All right,” Olivier whispered, then cleared his throat weakly.

“Get him water!” Aramis ordered, over his shoulder, to whomever was listening.

“No, I-- I don’t want to drink anything.” Olivier’s voice was painful in its hoarseness. “I still feel like throwing up.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Aramis heaved out, a tremor running through him. “Oh, _my son_. My _Olivier_!” He fell back to the mattress, head buried in his arms; Olivier patted him weakly, then looked up at Porthos and d’Artagnan with an almost quizzical expression. At length Aramis composed himself and sat back.

“¿ _Est_ _á bien, Pap_ _á_?” Olivier murmured, and Aramis choked out a laugh.

“ _Si, si, hijo mío. Oh, Olivier, estaba tan preocupado. Pens_ _é-- pens_ _é_ \--”

“ _Por favor, calmase, Pap_ _á_. I’m trying not to get upset and it’s hard when you’re so upset.”

Aramis laughed again, and sucked down a deep, trembling breath. “All right, Ol. All right, you’re right. Are you sure you won’t drink a little?”

“Not just yet.”

“How are you feeling?”

A small, wavering smile crept onto Olivier’s lips, and tears welled up in his eyes. “It’s a lot,” he bleated, chin buckling. “I feel like it’s too much.”

D’Artagnan got to his feet at this, but did not come closer. Porthos had turned from the window, but had not gone to the boy’s side either.

“I know it’s too much,” Aramis soothed. “But it will get easier as it sits with you longer. And we’re here for you. We’re here.”

“I don’t remember coming back here,” Olivier admitted. “I only remember riding Miel, and then I saw the lights-- I tried to hide behind a tree-- I didn’t know if you would find me.”

“Of course we found you, Ol. And your uncle carried you, all the way back.”

Olivier went still as he processed this; then, slowly, the tears began to roll down his cheeks. This at last roused Porthos, who tutted and located a hanky. Then he perched himself on the bed next to Olivier and dried his face with tender care.

“I’m sorry,” Olivier murmured, when Porthos was finished.

“Sorry for what, _cheri_?”

“Sorry for crying so much,” the boy replied. “I think I’ve cried more today than I have my whole life.”

“Don’t be sorry, Ollie. I’m only sorry you’re so sad.”

“But I’m not sad right now. I just-- I just thought about you carrying me, and-- I dunno. I love you, Uncle Porthos. I don’t know why thinking about that makes me cry.”

“‘cause you’re takin’ after me, is all,” Porthos teased, blotting the new tears away. “I love you too, Olivier.”

“And I love you too, Papá,” Olivier added. “And I love you too, d’Artagnan.”

“ _Te amo, hijo mío_ ,” Aramis replied-- and then all eyes turned on d’Artagnan. He wiped his cheeks hastily, caught off-guard by the sudden attention.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I love you too, Olivier. Of course I do. Oh-- _mm_.” He loved him, but what did that matter? What did that matter?

Then Aramis strode to d’Artagnan’s side and wrapped him in a fatherly hug. This did absolutely nothing to stem the flow of tears, in fact making them gush out twice as hard, and he clung to Aramis, wondering if he’d ever so do again.

“‘m sorry,” d’Artagnan choked out. “You never would’ve-- if I hadn’t come here, you--”

“Stop,” Aramis ordered, softly but firmly, just at his ear. “Nobody’s angry with you, d’Artagnan. Nobody blames you. Now buck up before you make your brother cry again.”

“I d’dn’t-- ‘m sorry--”

With a sigh, Aramis seemed to resign himself to the weeping spell; he held d’Artagnan close, and little by little, more exhausted than actually soothed, d’Artagnan stopped crying.

“It is,” Aramis clucked, sounding himself again, “the middle of the night, if I am not mistaken. I think the proper thing to do now is for us all to get some sleep. And in the morning, the world will seem good again.”

“All right,” Olivier agreed, and Porthos echoed him, and d’Artagnan made some sort of pathetic little noise that caused Aramis to kiss him firmly on the forehead.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he whispered. “Go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ALL the feels about Aramis and Porthos totally being d'Art's dads too. Definitely came out in this chapter.
> 
> Spanish  
>  _hijo mío_ = my son  
>  _querido_ = dear  
>  _Nunca quería que supieras._ = I never wanted you to know.  
>  _Quiero la verdad, Papá. Toda la verdad_ = I want the truth, Papa. The whole truth.  
>  _¿Está bien, Papá?_ = Are you okay, Papa?  
>  _Si, si, hijo mío. Oh, Olivier, estaba tan preocupado. Pensé-- pensé--_ = Yes, yes, my son. Oh, Olivier, I was so worried. I thought-- I thought--  
>  _Por favor, calmase, Papá._ = Please calm down, Papa.  
>  _Te amo._ = I love you.
> 
> French  
>  _cheri_ = dear


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning d’Artagnan felt better, relatively speaking, but this level of better was still fairly miserable. Even if he hadn’t ruined his friends’ lives, he’d changed them for good. He dressed and snuck out of the house before everybody else could rise, saw to Olivier’s chores and his own necessary duties and then when they were finished, holed up in the barn and petted the cats.

It was there Aramis found him mid-morning. He flopped down beside him, causing an undignified ruffle of the hay, and cut straight to the heart of things. “D’Artagnan,” he began, seriously. “I need you to listen to me, my friend. Everything is all right between us. Everything is _good_. You don’t need to hide from us and you don’t need to apologize to us.”

“How can I not? I fucked everything.”

“What happened was what was always going to happen,” Aramis replied, quietly. “We hoped he’d never find out but we never honestly expected it.”

“But aren’t you upset? That it happened?”

“I am. But don’t you think I’m old enough to separate that out from being upset with you? D’Artagnan, it was an _accident_.”

D’Artagnan said nothing, but let Aramis wrap an arm around him.

“Olivier wants you. I’m not letting him get out of bed today and he’s rather sulky about it, and wants to practice his Gascon with you. Honestly I think that may be code for cuddle with you, but I didn’t ask. You are rather cuddly, after all.”

“I’m not,” d’Artagnan huffed, only because he still felt like sulking, even as the cloud itself had lifted a little. Aramis pulled him closer. He hid his smile against his friend’s shoulder, not knowing what it was doing on his face and not wanting it to show.

In the end it turned out that practicing Gascon was _absolutely_ code for cuddling. The moment d’Artagnan sat down beside Olivier on the bed, he found his arms full of sleepy, slightly grumpy eight-year-old, and spent the next hour or so rubbing Olivier’s back as he dozed.

And it was lovely. Despite his numbing legs, despite the fact that he’d neglected to empty his bladder before visiting Olivier and the boy’s elbow was now pressing it uncomfortably, it was lovely. Athos had never sought comfort so blatantly, not even at his lowest lows. D’Artagnan had feared that this would disappear, feared that Olivier, knowing he was Athos, would suddenly be just as Athos had been. But he was not. He was the same shy, snuggly little boy that he had been, quiet but not uncheerful, affectionate without restraint.

Eventually he passed from a half-doze into a full sleep. D’Artagnan shifted him gently off his lap, dashed out to use the chamberpot, then came back, lay down beside Olivier, and fell asleep too with one arm around the boy’s waist. When he woke the sun was noon-bright through the cracks in the curtains. He was flat on his back and Olivier was sprawled across his belly, watching him sleep with those big pale eyes.

D’Artagnan cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes. “How long ago did you wake up, Ol?” he asked, voice a little croaky with sleep.

“Not very long. Are you feeling better, _gran frair_?”

“Me?” d’Artagnan chuckled. Olivier rolled off him, allowing him to sit up and stretch. “I’m fine, _pichon frair_. Are _you_ feeling better?”

“I’m fine,” Olivier replied, smiling shyly. “I was-- worried that you--”

“What?”

“I was worried that you were going to leave the distillery,” Olivier admitted, looking away. “You seemed so upset about everything, and I--”

“Hey,” d’Artagnan murmured, and grabbed the boy close. “Hey. I’m not going anywhere, Olivier. I’m sorry if I made you think that. I’m much more worried about you. How’s your belly?”

“It’s still a little sore. But better.”

“Are you saying it’s better just so I don’t worry?”

Olivier blushed. “Maybe a little. But it still isn’t as bad as it was yesterday.”

Yesterday. They’d yet to speak of it, and though d’Artagnan knew they’d have to at some point, right now he was selfishly happy not to.

The door pushed open, then, and Aramis came inside. “Productive lesson, I hope?” he prompted, coming to sit beside them.

“Not really,” Olivier replied. “D’Artagnan rubbed my back until I fell asleep, and then he fell asleep too.”

Aramis chuckled. “Well, you both needed it. How are you feeling? Ready to eat something?”

Olivier’s eyes flicked up at d’Artagnan, who at once had the distinct impression that the boy was getting tired of talking about his stomach and its troubles. “You said it’s a little sore, right?” d’Artagnan said to Olivier, who nodded.

Aramis hid his disappointment well, and leaned over to ruffle Olivier’s hair fondly. “All right. Give me a minute, Ol.”

Aramis disappeared then. Olivier slumped bonelessly against d’Artagnan’s side and shut his eyes, until Aramis came back in a few minutes later, carrying a cup in each hand.

“Here we are, _hijo mío_. Haven’t made this in a while, but it seemed like the perfect time.” He passed over a cup of what looked like milk, but Olivier’s eyes lit up.

“Froth!” he cried, as he accepting it eagerly.

“Froth?” D’Artagnan questioned. 

“It’s only milk with honey, and a little cinnamon,” Aramis explained. “Not the magic potion he makes it out to be. But his belly can handle it, even when it can’t handle anything else.” Olivier took a noisy slurp, and Aramis chuckled. “Of course maybe that’s just his sweet tooth convincing his belly to do so. But when his he’s feeling too poorly to eat, this helps get something inside him. Here. I thought you might be curious.”

He held out the second cup to d’Artagnan, who took it, surprised. The cup was warm. When he raised it to his mouth and sipped a little, it tasted simply like milk and honey and cinnamon-- but it _felt_ like the world itself was rising up to give him a nice hug, and he laughed into the drink at the unexpected feeling of comfort. 

“Hm. So it does work on other people, then. We were never quite sure.”

“You don’t like this?” D’Artagnan gasped. It seemed impossible. Since he’d taken that one little sip, his heart had steadied, stomach calmed, breath begun slipping in and out of his lungs with perfect ease. 

Aramis scoffed. “Froth is too sweet even for _Porthos_. I’ll take a nice roast over all else, personally.”

D’Artagnan took another drink, feeling better with every passing second, nearly wanting to cry but in the very best of ways. 

Olivier smiled up at him from over his own cup. “I think it tastes like how I think a cloud tastes!” he exclaimed, and the combined relief of the froth and of the utterly childish statement at last seemed to settle d’Artagnan. He wrapped an arm around Olivier again, and took another sip.

Once they’d finished and Aramis had taken their cups away, d’Artagnan and Olivier curled up together and fell asleep again. When they woke a second time, the light beyond the curtains had dimmed considerably.

Olivier yawned, then butted his head against d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Please don’t be excited,” he said, “but I’m hungry.”

D’Artagnan chuckled, extremely excited but dutifully holding it in. “Do you want me to carry you to the kitchen?”

“Yes.” Then his nose scrunched up. “I’m glad you asked if I wanted it and not if I needed it, because I don’t think I actually need it.”

D’Artagnan laughed again, swung his legs out of the bed, and waited for Olivier to scramble up onto his back. They made their way to the kitchen, which smelled of onion soup. Aramis plucked Olivier from d’Artagnan’s back and made him swallow a spoonful of herbs and a cup of water while Porthos enveloped d’Artagnan in a big bear hug.

“Here we are,” Porthos huffed, squeezing tight. “Here we are.”

*

And then it was harvest. The secret, now revealed, stayed with them wherever they went, but in the sudden frenzy of activity, all seemed content to let it be for now. Olivier had spent another day in bed, but was fully well in time for picking.

Which was good, because once they began it was a job for every man, and child; for a solid week, the four of them plus Honoré and Jean-Marc picked plums sun-up to sun-down. In the second week, Aramis peeled away to begin the wine-making. Honoré went with him, to aid in the cutting and pitting, and the remaining four of them picked on, until the orchards were nearly bare. The days passed in a sunburnt, juice-stained haze of sore satisfaction.

When most of the harvesting was complete, the kitchen of the main house transformed into jam-making headquarters. Porthos and Olivier churned out jar after jar. With Aramis up at the distillery, it fell to d’Artagnan and Jean-Marc to pick the late-ripening fruit, cart them out to markets, and sell them by the armful.

Then it came time to eat all that was left. As August ended it became nearly a patriotic duty to carry a plum in one’s hand at all times, and d’Artagnan became so accustomed to their sweet smell that instead of noticing it he began to notice the moments in which he could not smell it.

Aramis reappeared for his birthday. Then he spent one last week up in the distillery proper before coming fully back to them for September.

That’s when the cooking began. There were plum puddings and pastries for breakfast, plum sauces on whatever they ate for supper, plum pie and plum bread and poached plums if ever anyone cared for a snack. Only by mid-September did the plums finally begin to dwindle. D’Artagnan could not remember the last time he had been properly hungry, and felt mildly queasy every time he looked at a plum-- but these were both problems he felt honored to endure.

And then, with harvest over, the questions began.

“What sort of food did I like when I was a grown-up?” Olivier wondered aloud at supper one day.

D’Artagnan’s heart felt as though it stopped a moment; Porthos froze with a cup halfway to his mouth. “Berry tarts,” Aramis choked out, eventually. “Though as musketeers we rarely had the luxury of pickiness.”

Olivier nodded, as though he’d just been made privy to the innermost workings of the universe.

A few days passed with nothing. Then, in the sitting room one evening: “what sort of clothes did I wear?”

Helping d’Artagnan weed around the pumpkins: “was I really shorter than Papá?”

Watching Aramis style his hair: “will my hair really turn brown?”

They cobbled together answers from bits and bobs, caught stupendously off-guard each and every time. Olivier, as always, was perfectly respectful. He never asked about anything serious-- never asked about fighting, or anything about their duties, really. Still he did not stop questioning.

September faded fast into an unseasonably chilly autumn, and then, on what would have been Athos’ forty-fifth birthday, d’Artagnan woke with an itchy sense of indistinct unease. Olivier knew the significance of this date. But the morning was a normal one, with all going about their business as usual, still catching up on things left behind during harvest. It wasn’t until after supper that anything odd happened at all.

The four of them were gathered in the sitting room; the fire was lit, and all seemed contented to just silently take in its warmth, and their family’s presence. Then all at once Olivier shuddered.

“Are you seeing the lights, _hijo mío_?” Aramis prompted. He sounded exhausted, though he had not seemed so at supper.

But Olivier, after a moment of hesitation, shook his head.

“No? You had that face on.”

“Um,” Olivier replied, shyly, “I felt kind of sick for a second. But I’m all right now.”

Aramis did not take kindly to this insistence and sprang into action, foisting a spoonful of herbs on his son and then carrying him straight to bed. Porthos and d’Artagnan trailed them to Olivier’s room.

Inside they found Aramis tucking the pouting boy in; d’Artagnan felt himself relax a little as Olivier grumbled, “I don’t _need_ to go to sleep early, Papá, I ate a little too much supper, is all--”

But Aramis was insistent. He kissed Olivier’s forehead and bid him goodnight, then stepped aside so Porthos, and then d’Artagnan, could do the same.

“D’Artagnan,” Olivier called, when d’Artagnan was almost to the door. Aramis and Porthos had already left.

“Olivier,” he replied, turning back with a bow.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead, Ol. It’s all you’ve been doing for two weeks.”

Olivier smiled at the teasing. “This one is different, kind of.”

“All right.”

“For-- for my birthday. My birthday when I was Athos. The last year before-- everything was different. Did you give me a pocketknife?”

D’Artagnan’s heart did its half-stop again. “Yeah, I did. Yours had broken.”

“All right. That was all I wanted to ask.”

Now d’Artagnan had a hundred questions that he himself wanted to ask-- but he voiced none of them. Instead he bid Olivier goodnight again, and tried to go to bed as well.

*

In October, Aramis disappeared again. The wine was ripening; it was time to bottle what would be sold on its own merit, and move into casks what would be made into brandy. Olivier had not stopped asking questions. But they had begun to dwindle slightly, and the few panicky days that d’Artagnan had endured after being asked about the pocketknife slowly passed into memory.

One afternoon, d’Artagnan finished his duties and went to lie on the hill. The air was crisp, and he enjoyed it immensely; cool autumns were one of the few things he missed from Paris, for typically at this time of year it was still summer in the south.

Porthos joined him after a time, lying down beside him. D’Artagnan reached into his pocket and pulled out a plum, and dropped it unceremoniously onto Porthos’ chest.

Porthos moaned and flicked it away. “I’ll throw up. I will fuckin’ vomit plum all over you, an’ I ain’t even eaten any today.” D’Artagnan snorted and retrieved the plum, plopping it back on Porthos and watching him toss it away again.

“Don’t let Aramis hear you say that. If idolatry weren’t a sin I think he’d worship these little fuckers.”

“I think he might anyway. Makes sense, I s’pose.”

“They were his childhood, weren’t they?”

“Mm. Worse things for it t’be. Mind you, they do right by me now. No complaints. Only if I have to eat another before next harvest, I’ll scream.”

“I’m with you there,” d’Artagnan agreed. As delicious as the jams and the wines smelled, he wasn’t sure he could stomach even those. “Olivier’s with Aramis on this one, isn’t he? He won’t stop ‘til they’re all eaten or rotten.” Even as his own tolerance, and Porthos’, had waned, the other two members of the household continued to gobble the fruit down like it was the next ambrosia.

“Well, I mean-- it’s his childhood too, innit?” Porthos chuckled. “Thank God they’re nearly gone.”

“Mm.” D’Artagnan rolled lazily onto his side and butted Porthos’ shoulder. His leg had been in a period of near-normalcy for a few days now, and relief had him feeling mildly giddy and a little clingy-- though of course pain led to clinginess too. Maybe he was just a clingy person now. (Maybe because it was the first time in nearly a decade that he could afford to be.)

Porthos reached over blindly and patted d’Artagnan’s side. “I’ve gotta question for you, pup.”

“All right.”

“Wanted t’ask you. ‘s about time for the big delivery. The wine’s all bottled, and how we do it is I usually take a cart ‘round to all the customers. Takes ‘bout three weeks. We make smaller deliveries throughout, but this is the big one. I wanted to know if you wanted to come with me.”

D’Artagnan pushed up on one arm. “Sure. How many men do you need to guard it?”

Porthos frowned. “No, no-- we hire people for that, at the hotels along the way. I mean, I do ride with a pistol, but I’ve never used it. I was more talkin’ ‘bout you seein’ the business end of things. An’ it’s not a bad holiday. Aramis stays here with Ollie, of course, so usually I’ve got nobody to enjoy it with, but it’s still nice.

“What do you mean, holiday?”

Porthos shrugged. “Stay in good hotels. Eat good food. You’re thinkin’ of a soldier’s life on the road, but it ain’t the same. Whaddya say?”

D’Artagnan frowned. On one hand there was a part of him contented to never roam farther than town. And three weeks away was not the blink of an eye. On the other hand he knew how he’d spend those three weeks if he stayed-- fretting for Porthos’ welfare every waking moment and half of his time in bed too. And it did sound intriguing. The war might have beaten a lot of things out of him but it had not taken all the adventure from his soul. He was fairly sure it hadn’t, at least.

“Sounds fun,” he replied, and Porthos thumped him in approval.

And that’s how it came to pass that he’d be standing in front of a small trunk the next day, packing some clothes, toiletries, and two books he’d been meaning to read. Aramis had ridden into town to rent a cart, which they’d spend the day loading. They’d leave in the morning, and d’Artagnan felt a strange mixture of excitement and nerves-- not exactly a foreign combination, but certainly one he associated more with his earlier years than now.

There was a knock at the door. D’Artagnan kicked the trunk closed-- he’d been debating whether or not to leave one book behind, and had finally decided to simply be careful with them-- and called for them to enter.

Porthos stepped in, eyed the trunk, and grinned. “Packed?”

“Just finished. You?”

“Mostly. Dunno why it takes me so long. I’ll be glad for the company this year, pup, I can tell you that.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” d’Artagnan replied-- which wasn’t a lie, but wasn’t the whole truth either.

“Good. Good. I did come to say, though-- to make sure you knew-- we ain’t gonna cross the border. But we are gonna meet up with a coupla customers pretty close to it. Spanish customers, I mean. Are you gonna be, y’know. All right with that?”

D’Artagnan nodded firmly. “I will be. Yes.”

In the morning, d’Artagnan ate a good breakfast, loaded his trunk onto the cart, and fastened his traveling cloak about his shoulders. Aramis and Porthos were having a last minute review of some figures. Meanwhile Olivier was sulking morosely on the bench outside the kitchen door.

D’Artagnan joined him. The boy collapsed against him at once, nuzzling his face across d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “I hate it when Uncle travels,” he pouted, into d’Artagnan’s cloak. “And now you’re travelling, too.”

“We’ll be fine, Ol. Your uncle does this every year-- and this time they’ll be two of us!”

“You’ll watch out for each other?”

“Mm-hm. Just like you and your papa will watch out for each other while we’re gone. And before you know it, we’ll all be back together.”

Olivier clutched him all the more tightly. “Please be safe,” he whispered; his voice trembled as if he could cry at any moment. D’Artagnan scooped him up and hugged him close.

“ _Seras ben_ ,” he soothed. “ _Que vas aver ton pair dambe tu_.”

“‘m not worried about me,” Olivier huffed. “I’m worried about you and Uncle.”

“We’ll be fine, Ol. If you’ve got to worry then worry about our bellies. Your uncle won’t shut up about all the food we’re going to eat.”

Porthos and Aramis joined them a few minutes later and the four of them made their way around to the cart. Before climbing up, Porthos stood as though at attention. Instinctively d’Artagnan did the same, and they each received a long hug from Olivier, and a blessing and a kiss from Aramis. Then Aramis hugged Olivier close, and they set off.

Riding at the front of the cart with Porthos, listening to the tell-tale signs of somebody tracking them, d’Artagnan was glad Porthos had thought to tell him ahead about the guards he’d hired, or the guards probably would have ended up shot. Not that they were doing poorly, d’Artagnan noted. _Two behind us and two ahead_ , Porthos had explained; it was arranged along the way as well, so that they exchanged guards and horses every day or two. It seemed like an awful lot of men to trust, d’Artagnan thought. But Porthos seemed satisfied with security, and beyond that cheerful in general, and d’Artagnan decided that even if he wasn’t all that comfortable, he wouldn’t ruin this for his friend.

Porthos, of course, noticed. He spoke with ease, about unimportant matters, and d’Artagnan knew it was for his own benefit; this didn’t quite soothe him, though the sheer fact of Porthos’ attentions was still heartening. If nothing else he’d enjoy having Porthos to himself. At the distillery, as it had been all those years ago, Porthos and Aramis were quite literally inseparable, even when compared to of their quartet. D’Artagnan did not mind this at all. And yet he’d always enjoyed the moments when it was just him and Porthos, for Porthos was the one who had it all figured out-- though he’d surely protest otherwise-- and this had a calming effect.

It still did. The first few hours slipped away easily, and d’Artagnan found himself relaxing more than he’d have expected.

In the early afternoon, they came to their first appointment. It was a hotel in a decently-sized village, almost a town; the hotel owner had been a customer for a few years now, and had ordered a score of crates. They were also meeting here with a potential private buyer, d’Artagnan knew. Still he did not know exactly how that worked, and as they entered the hotel, resolved to simply observe Porthos.

Porthos was a natural at it. Friendly and good-humored, though still big enough to subtly intimidate at a moment’s notice, he greeted the owner with a grin and a firm handshake and was welcomed with equal vigor. They were taken back to a small office.

Before the owner could ask, Porthos explained d’Artagnan as a third partner, also joining them from their military days; d’Artagnan tried to smile, tried to capture the same combination of affability and strength that Porthos seemed to exude effortlessly. Instead he felt nothing shy of awkward. Sized up critically, he felt more aware than ever of the scars on his face, the natural scowl of his expression, the list of his standing posture.

But he was not treated poorly, only sort of ignored. Porthos enacted the deal with the owner of the hotel, then met with the other buyer, talked him up for a few minutes then fed him small samples of three types of brandy, and sold another five crates.

And still d’Artagnan was mostly standing there, stunned.

He was further impressed when, rather than Porthos collecting the money from either of his buyers, riders were dispatched from the hotel to carry payment back to the distillery. “That only works the days we’re close,” Porthos explained, “but we give ‘em a discount for it, an’ it cuts down on the money we have to carry.”

D’Artagnan was impressed. He was also now worried for Aramis’ and Olivier’s security, and Porthos, seeing this, shook his head and patted d’Artagnan’s back as they returned to the cart.

Not two hours later they came upon their second stop. This was a proper town, and their customer a shopkeeper who bought in bulk and then distributed to surrounding villages at a slight markup. This stop went much like the first. “Our single biggest buyer,” Porthos explained, as fully a quarter of the cart was unloaded. “‘swhy we come ‘round this way first.” In addition to the brandy, the shopkeeper also agreed to a few cases of wine, which he had not purchased in previous years.

“Excellent batch,” he remarked, and made a comment about buying some after it aged. When Porthos reminded him that plum wine did not age in the same way as wine made from grapes, the shopkeeper thought a moment, then bought another two cases.

“Christ, we’ll run out of extra!” Porthos commented cheerfully, after they left.

They guided the cart to a nearby hotel, where the owner greeted them and quickly pulled the cart into a storage port around the back. Then they went around to the main entrance. Porthos, as in all other things, had been right; this was utterly unlike the hotels they’d stayed in as musketeers, and was large and smelled of perfume.

Porthos greeted the owner as he’d greeted all the others. He paid in full, up front, having kept a small portion of the money from the second patron; he also gave him a bottle of wine. The owner winked, passed over the key.

“Gets us the nicest rooms,” Porthos explained, as they climbed the stairs.

D’Artagnan frowned. “Wait-- rooms? Did you get two rooms?” d’Artagnan asked. Porthos nodded and handed him one of what now turned out to be two keys. “Why?”

“‘cause we’re two people?”

“We can share.”

Porthos grinned. “Like I’ve been sayin’. Travellin’ for business’s a little different from travellin’ as a musketeer. We can afford it, pup. You wanna lie down an hour before supper?”

D’Artagnan nodded, and went to find his door.

Inside of his room he locked his door, inspected every crook and corner, then fell heavily onto the bed. It was enormous, and softer by far than regular mattresses. Still d’Artagnan missed the sunny yellow quilt that he slept under at the distillery, which he had eventually discovered to be sewn by Aramis’ youngest sister, dyed with rosemary. The stitches were loosening, the dye slightly patchy, and yet, it said _home_. D’Artagnan closed his eyes, curled up in the center of the big bed, and drifted in and out of sleep for a while until Porthos woke him with a knock.

They went down to the restaurant for supper. Porthos did not order so much that they overate, but the food was expertly prepared and far more flavorful than anything they cooked for themselves. Certainly they could have bought ten meals of stew and bread for the price of this. But once the food was actually in front of him, smelling like nothing shy of a king’s feast, d’Artagnan found this pragmatism effectively silenced, and he and Porthos spent an hour doing nothing but enjoying and remarking upon the superb quality of their supper. This buoyed him a little as they returned to their rooms. He did not fully undress for bed, as he’d taken to doing at the distillery, but he removed his boots and trousers, crawled under the covers, and closed his eyes. Still loneliness dogged his mind. He lay awake for hours, listening to the once-familiar sounds of the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gascon
> 
>  _gran frair_ = big brother  
>  _pichon frair_ = little brother  
>  _Seras ben. Que vas aver ton pair dambe tu._ = It’ll be all right. Your father will look after you.


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning Porthos roused him a little after sunrise. It was an odd feeling to wake once again to the sounds of other people beginning their days, in lieu of a rooster, but Porthos’ calm face was a relaxing sight. This day went much like the first had. They met with three customers; d’Artagnan did not completely follow all the business aspects of it, but judging by Porthos’ mood and his brief summaries, everything was going well. At the last stop, they dispatched a rider back with their earnings. They also paid their first set of guards and sent them back with the horses; they’d meet up with the second set, already hired, the next day.

The food continued to be excellent. D’Artagnan got the distinct impression that this was the sort of thing Porthos used up his personal salary on, and supposed it was no more or less of an indulgence than the books and hair oils that Aramis purchased with his. He enjoyed himself at supper. Still he thought glumly at the prospect of retiring to their separate rooms-- until Porthos led them upstairs with only one key.

When he realized what his friend had done, d’Artagnan blushed. “You didn’t have to,” he muttered; there was no point in attempting to talk around anything with Porthos, as they both knew exactly what was going on.

But Porthos, of course, played it off. “Less we spend on rooms, the more we spent on food,” he remarked, shrugging. Still d’Artagnan felt himself apologizing as they climbed into bed together. “Sorry for what?” Porthos countered, gently. “Sorry you’ve been to hell an’ back an’ bein’ back on the road has you a little skiddish? Christ. I think you’re doin’ well. If me hoggin’ all the blankets away in the middle of the night makes you feel any better, I’ll do it gladly.”

They pulled the blankets over themselves, and Porthos fell asleep within minutes; d’Artagnan calmed at the sound of his steady breathing. He felt much safer now. Still full relaxation evaded him, too many thoughts crashing about in his head, gratitude and shame and the distracting notion of sleeping beside somebody for more than just a nap for the first time in a long, long time.

Instead he stared across the bed at his friend’s slackened face. Rarely did he have cause or opportunity to observe his friend so openly, but now that he did, he found more lines than he’d expected, and more silver hairs beginning to curl up from his temples.

D’Artagnan’s stomach tightened, and he moved a little closer. Porthos and Aramis had both aged well, and were still fit and active men, but it was hard to ignore in a moment like this the fact that they were both staring down their forties. It hurt to remember that he was nearly a decade younger. Hurt to remember that even in their safer, gentler lifestyle, time still marched on and age still marked itself liberally--

And yet Porthos seemed so happy. He had a loving, if odd little family, and modest wealth as well-- this d’Artagnan knew to be the less important of the two, but still a triumph for somebody who’d grown up begging on the streets. Porthos had been a solider, just as he had. And here he was, an uncle, a businessman, satisfied by all accounts, put-together in his head and his heart--

Apparently it was possible, then.

Tears stung d’Artagnan’s eyes, not quite happy tears but not quite unhappy ones either; he burrowed closer to his friend and let himself fall asleep.

In the morning he woke to Porthos’ arm around him.

On the third day, they were too far to reasonably have the money delivered directly to the farm; d’Artagnan began to fret about the safety of their earnings, until they make one last stop, this one to a tax collector. Porthos and the man greeted each other like old friends. D’Artagnan was amazed to see that their earnings from the day paid their yearly taxes in full, and was even more amazed to see that the man did not charge any extra for handling the taxes of somebody outside of his appointed region. Porthos, however, seemed to expect this, and thanked him with two bottles of brandy.

“You really do have this figured out,” d’Artagnan mused, as they walked through the chilly air back to the hotel. “Not that I thought you didn’t, but-- really.”

Porthos beamed. “You know we _will_ be carryin’ money at some point. But yeah. It’s figured out, pup. Been doin’ this a while now.”

D’Artagnan was growing calmer and calmer, especially as Porthos once again booked them one room, and they ate a good supper and climbed into bed together. But what came next had him right back on edge again.

“We’re meetin’ with one of the Spanish buyers tomorrow.” The candle was already out, and in the darkness Porthos’ voice was quiet and careful.

D’Artagnan rolled over and said nothing.

The next morning felt colder than ever, even though they headed south; sometime around noon they came to an unassuming village, parked their cart in a hotel’s care, and went into a nearby tavern. D’Artagnan was sulking, unapologetically. Porthos was deliberately calm-- until, that is, they settled down at a table with a grey-haired, clean-shaven man who looked up at Porthos and shrugged helplessly.

“Eh-- _buenos días_ , Luis. Where’s Guillermo?”

Luis-- the Spanish customer sitting there looking sheepish in a French tavern-- shrugged. “ _Infermo_. Infirm? Ill. Is ill.” He spoke very quietly.

“Oh.” Porthos laughed nervously, and Luis did the same. For a moment they both shuffled through the papers in their hands, and it occurred to d’Artagnan that he had not seen Porthos look so uneasy at any point in the past half year. It also occurred to him how much Porthos hated feeling incompetent.

D’Artagnan cleared his throat. “Guillermo-- ¿ _es su traductor_?”

Luis blinked up at him. “ _Sí_ _,_ _sí_. ¿ _Habla espa_ _ñol, Se_ _ñor_ \--?”

“D’Artagnan,” d’Artagnan supplied, and reached over to shake his hand. “ _Y_ _sí_ _. Bueno, hablo torpamente. Pero puedo entender perfectamente_.” He glanced up at Porthos, who looked shocked and pleased in equal measure. “Should I just-- you could talk and I could--?”

“Do you mind?” Porthos asked. D’Artagnan knew with full confidence that if he said he did, Porthos would walk away from this transaction, business be damned-- that made it a little easier to smile and reply that he did not.

“ _Bueno_ ,” d’Artagnan murmured. “ _Bueno, ustedes hablan y,_ eh _, voy a hacer mi mejor esfuerzo para traducer--_ you two talk and I’ll just do my best, yeah?”

Luis grinned. “ _Gracias a Dios._ _Traté de_ _arrastrar a mi hermano pero él es un niño como cuando tiene un resfriado. Muchas, muchas gracias, d’Artagnan. Yo estabaterriblementenervioso_.”

Porthos tilted his head at d’Artagnan, who translated easily, “he’s very grateful. He was very nervous. He tried to drag his brother along but he says he’s very childish when he feels ill.”

Luis raised his eyebrows at Porthos, who nodded his understanding. The two of them laughed again, a little more freely, and though the tension did not break then it did ease considerably.

The meeting was a quick one. Luis signed off on the order he’d previously put through; Porthos did not try to sell him any extra, and they were finished within minutes. Luis paid-- in French currency, d’Artagnan noted-- and they went back to the cart to get the crates.

At the end of it, Luis grabbed d’Artagnan’s hand and pumped it thoroughly; Porthos looked on, beaming. “That was brilliant,” he enthused, after Luis had left them.

The nerves that had not caught him then caught him now, and d’Artagnan swayed, suddenly lightheaded and more than a little nauseous. Porthos took his arm and held him steady. Then, when his bad leg finally stabilized beneath him, Porthos shepherded him back to the hotel restaurant, ordered him a large mug of ale, and chattered aimlessly as he gulped it down.

It was worlds easier after that. D’Artagnan even began to enjoy filling the role of the quieter, more serious partner; he was never really needed again, but he began to excel at standing at Porthos’ back and looking a little menacing, even when Porthos was laying on the charm.

Every night they climbed into bed together. By the time a week had passed, they had abandoned all pretense of rolling towards each other during the night, and simply lay down to sleep side by side, Porthos’ arm around d’Artagnan’s middle.

The cart lightened by the day. As they looped back around, closer to home again, Porthos once more dispatched riders with their earnings and paid a few more bills along the way. Everything was winding down. And though d’Artagnan now felt quite comfortable with the journey, he also found himself longing for home again-- though there was one more adventure coming.

The last three days were spent riding through Gascony. D’Artagnan had rejected Porthos’ idea of visiting Lupiac, and continued to do so when he offered again; there was nothing left for him there. Nevertheless, just to be in Gascony was a treat. He chatted freely with their customers in Gascon, glad that his lessons with Olivier had returned the language to its original sharpness in his mind. The customers, expecting to speak in French with Porthos, were equally delighted. The surplus stock they’d brought with them had long been sold, but most of the customers placed second orders for later in the year, and loaded them up with tokens of goodwill ranging from smoked sausages to candy to a lovely, fluffy blanket.

“You realize you’re comin’ every trip, right?” Porthos chuckled, as they climbed onto the cart for the last time. “Now, I’m not sayin’ folks in Gascony don’t like me-- but I never got sausages before you tagged along.”

“It’s like the cats,” d’Artagnan teased, and Porthos scoffed.

“No. It ain’t like the cats. Gascons don’t _hate_ me. They just like you more.”

D’Artagnan shrugged, wrapped the blanket around himself, and settled in for the ride.

It was nearing nightfall when they pulled up to the distillery. Porthos paid the guards, handed the horses over to them, then turned towards the main house with a sleepy smile on his face. Inside there was a sudden racket, then the door burst open.

Olivier screeched happily and barreled towards Porthos, who scooped him up with a cackle; the boy tucked his legs around Porthos’ hips, arms around Porthos’ neck, and clung to him for a long moment. Then abruptly he dismounted. He dashed over to d’Artagnan and hugged him just as fiercely, while Porthos, laughing, hugged Aramis.

“We miss anythin’ excitin’?” Porthos asked, as he let go of Aramis so that Aramis could come over and hug d’Artagnan.

“Yes! I lost another tooth,” Olivier informed them. “Papá says I’m nearly done now. Mirga still hasn’t caught any mice, though. That’s a soft blanket, d’Artagnan. Did you two have a nice trip?”

He said all this in one breath, and d’Artagnan laughed openly. It was good to be home.

Porthos went over to begin unloading their trunks and gifts from the cart; Olivier intercepted, demanding wordlessly to be hugged again. Porthos laughed and carried him back into the house. Shaking his head, d’Artagnan unfolded the blanket from his shoulders and went to the cart to unload instead.

A hand on his arm stopped him. Aramis’ face, to a stranger, might have looked calm, but to d’Artagnan it looked very worried indeed.

“D’Artagnan, how old were you when you finished losing your baby teeth?”

D’Artagnan hoped that his shrug combined with his own expression conveyed how very thoroughly he did not know.

Aramis sighed. “By my count he only has two left to lose, and he isn’t even nine yet. That seems young.”

D’Artagnan beckoned him close, leaned in, and whispered, “you worry too much.” This earned him a tired smile.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Aramis admitted. “Come and tell me of your journey. Traveling with Porthos means you must have eaten exceptionally well.”

The cart unloaded, they settled down to supper; fine hotel food it was not, but d’Artagnan had missed Aramis’ cooking. After supper he fetched the blanket and wrapped it around Olivier. “But it’s yours!” the boy protested, trying to give it back.

“I’ve missed my yellow quilt,” d’Artagnan replied, feeling as though he might have been blushing a little. “I really have. I think you should keep that one. I’ll borrow it sometimes.”

Olivier acquiesced, and curled up in the blanket in front of the fire.

When they were all getting ready for bed, Aramis pulled d’Artagnan aside again; this time, far from fretting, he regarded him proudly. “Porthos told me about Luis,” was all he said. Then he hugged d’Artagnan firmly; the pride that Aramis felt seemed to seep between them in the embrace. D’Artagnan beamed, face against Aramis’ shoulder.

Lying down to sleep, d’Artagnan found himself a little lonely without Porthos beside him, and curled up tightly to compensate. Before long, though, he began to relax. Out on the road, travelling from new place to new place, he had only felt safe with Porthos right beside him; now, back at the distillery, he was safe, from every angle. He rolled over onto his belly and fell promptly asleep.

*

The first morning of waking up back at the distillery, d’Artagnan opened his eyes happily-- but rather than being struck by a moment of peace, instead something else sprang to mind. His nose was clogged completely beyond usefulness. His mouth was dry as though he’d been breathing through it all night, and when he forced himself to sit, his head pounded.

He groaned.

In the kitchen it was clear that Porthos was in a similar state; they regarded each other and grunted in sympathy as d’Artagnan flopped down at the table. Behind him Porthos was sniffling loudly. “Eggs?” he prompted-- then sneezed massively.

“Only if you didn’t just sneeze on them,” d’Artagnan replied, voice a scratchy croak, and Porthos chuckled. It was a terribly congested sound.

When Aramis joined them, he noticed immediately, and went to test the temperature of their foreheads both in turn. “We’re fine,” Porthos insisted, as Aramis pressed the back of his hand to Porthos’ brow. “No fever. ‘sjust a head cold.”

“Mm-hm,” d’Artagnan hummed in agreement, though when it was his turn he couldn’t deny it felt nice to have Aramis fuss over him, as ever.

“All right. Well. _Please_ tell me if it gets worse-- I think we’re out of lungwort, but I could easily ride to the apothecary.”

“We’re _fine_ , Ar,” Porthos repeated, grinning; d’Artagnan was pretty sure he was enjoying the attention too.

Aramis glared. “Well, do try to control your sneezes.”

Porthos did. But it was no use-- quite inevitably, Olivier was sniffling by the next day, Wednesday, and by Thursday all four of them were ill. They staggered through Thursday but by Friday were all exhausted, and determined without too much guilt that they would stay in and look after themselves, seeing only to the barest necessities.

They’d had the foresight to haul in extra wood the day before. Aramis and Olivier had seen to the animals and the most necessary of the chores; Porthos had started up a huge pot of pea soup.

They assembled in the sitting room. D’Artagnan, who had stubbornly refused to slow down despite fire in his throat and the invisible anchors around his feet finally gave in, curled up in front of the fire, and relished the feeling of succumbing to a superficial misery. It was so different than it had been in the service. All too many times, left vulnerable by battlefield conditions and with no time to rest, d’Artagnan had found himself emptying his stomach behind a tent five minutes before rallying his men, succumbing to feverish delirium in place of sleep for three nights running then leading a new campaign literally shaking with exhaustion. 

Life had been less lonely, but not all too much easier before his captaincy. D’Artagnan could see it so clearly: the four of them crowded in a scraggy hotel room or around a campfire, too cold or too hot, battered and bruised or bored and restless, sleeping in shifts more often than not. And here they were ten years later. Lounging before a fire, safe and well fed and battling nothing but the inconvenience of a head cold. He had not anticipated this until retirement. And really, if he was being honest with himself, he had never actually anticipated retirement. Now there seemed an extra stage of life. Having a family, watching a child grow-- he had never expected to experience these things. D’Artagnan sighed, unsure if it stuck from emotion or congestion.

Porthos was settled on one bench; Aramis flopped down beside him. Porthos tucked an arm around Aramis’ chest, holding him loosely, brushing through his hair with his other hand. Before long, Aramis’ snores were coming thick and deep. Olivier glanced up now and then from his position on the opposite bench, regarding them fondly as Porthos guarded Aramis, no longer a soldier but ever watchful none-the-less. 

The day passed quietly. In the afternoon, Aramis came awake with a gentle gasp; Porthos hugged him tighter as he stirred. Aramis settled back heavily. 

“Hey,” Porthos breathed. “Someone’s been sleepy.”

Aramis yawned and nodded.

“Think you’d like some soup?”

Another nod.

Rather than force Porthos to dislodge Aramis, d’Artagnan got to his feet and went to fetch a bowl. When he returned, Aramis was sitting upright. He smiled as d’Artagnan brought him the bowl, and rasped out a gravelly _thank you_. D’Artagnan ruffled his already messy hair by way of reply.

Aramis took a drink of the soup and d’Artagnan saw his shoulders relax as the warmth of it soothed him. Porthos rubbed his back encouragingly. Aramis drank down half of the bowl, then curled up in Porthos’ lap and fell asleep again.

In the evening, d’Artagnan brought more soup for Olivier, Porthos, and himself. After Olivier finished his, d’Artagnan shepherded him off to his bedroom and tucked him into bed, adding a few extra blankets to keep him warm. The boy was half-asleep before d’Artagnan had finished. When he emerged into the hallway he found that Porthos had similarly been seeing to Aramis; then they went to bed themselves.

Saturday was better for some, worse for others. D’Artagnan’s throat was no longer scratchy; his nose was mostly working and now the whole of it was a wet cough that he muffled in his elbow. Porthos, too, continued to recover.

But Aramis, who had already been exhausted, sniffling, and raspy, emerged from his bedroom in the morning looking abjectly wretched.

“What’s wrong?” d’Artagnan demanded, at once. He and Porthos, making use of their newfound energy, were tidying the kitchen, as it had not been seen to in a few days. Olivier was still in bed. Aramis shook his head and picked up a cloth as though to join them in their cleaning, then just sort of stared at it.

Porthos went to him and touched a gentle hand to his shoulder. “Stomach?”

Aramis nodded.

Porthos sighed. “You an’ your damn stomach. You don’t see the rest of us gettin’ queasy over a head cold! It’s ‘cause you don’t blow your nose enough. You swallow all your nonsense down.”

Aramis’ lip curled up in a nauseated sneer. “Very descriptive, _mi amor_ ,” he croaked.

“Mm. Uh-huh. You want me to come sit with you or not?”

Aramis turned his head to the side and down, and nodded once. Porthos said no more, but led him patiently into the sitting room; d’Artagnan heard the stoking of the fire, then the creaking of a bench. He finished cleaning the kitchen. When he went into the sitting room to check on his friends, he found Aramis propped against Porthos, snoring away with Porthos’ fingers in his hair.

“I’ll gonna make some more soup,” d’Artagnan told him quietly, “and see to Olivier’s chores. Is there anything you two need?”

Porthos thought a moment before quietly replying. “He probably _won’t_ actually get sick, but--”

D’Artagnan nodded and found a wooden basin to place at Porthos’ feet before going out to the barn.

By the time he returned, Olivier was awake. He also seemed healthier today, coughing noisily but no longer so droopy-eyed; he sat on the bench across from the others, observing his father worriedly.

D’Artagnan settled beside him. “ _Es ben, pichon frair_ ,” he soothed, rubbing Olivier’s back through the layer of blanket surrounding him; it was the blanket from Gascony, and Olivier had hardly parted with it for a moment during his illness.

“I know. Papá’s healthy. Only he always seems to feel worse than the rest of us when he does get sick.”

“He always has. Even back in Paris.”

Porthos smiled over at these words; Olivier settled against d’Artagnan and continued to keep watch over Aramis. At one point Aramis grunted, and shifted about his in sleep. Olivier’s eyes widened, and he sat up with a cry of, “is he going to be sick, Uncle?” But Aramis settled again, and slept on.

Deciding that Olivier would only worry himself into feeling worse again, d’Artagnan bundled the boy up in two thick sweaters and coaxed him out to the barn. Once there the cats took his mind off things. For days now they’d been fed but not petted or played with, and they swarmed Olivier, mewling for his attention, until his outer sweater was fully covered in fur and he was smiling contentedly.

When they returned to the sitting room a while later, Aramis was awake and alone. This clearly had not been his own choice, and he pouted crossly when Porthos returned from the washroom. Porthos chuckled. “Sorry, sorry, seemed a better idea than pissin’ on ya, eh?”

Aramis gave an indignant scoff, and flopped back against him the moment he’d sat. Despite his father’s mood, Olivier seemed calmer for seeing him awake. He fetched his blanket, left on the other bench, and spread it carefully over the two men. Aramis smiled up at him sleepily.

“ _Gracias, hijo_ _mío_ ,” he rasped. “ _Pero por favor, deje de mirar inquieto. Solamente tengo que dormer un poco más_.”

D’Artagnan stepped to their side as well, placed one hand on Porthos’ shoulder and one on Aramis’ back. “ _Bueno_ , ¿ _puedes permanecer despierto por unos minutos para comer un poco de sopa_?”

Aramis startled at the sound of this, but after a moment he smiled again, looking touched. “ _Si, puedo_.”

D’Artagnan and Olivier carried four bowls of soup into the sitting room; they all ate, then Aramis lay back against Porthos but kept his eyes open.

“Would anyone like me to read?” d’Artagnan offered.

Olivier, who had settled on the floor at Porthos’ feet, looked excited a moment, then frowned. “Doesn’t your throat hurt, _gran frair_?”

“Not anymore. I’ll stop if it starts to again.”

So Olivier scrambled to the bookshelf and selected a book, seemingly at random.

“Mm, de Montreux,” Aramis murmured. Olivier settled back on the floor and d’Artagnan pulled a chair up to sit closer to his audience.

In the end he read for almost an hour. His throat had begun to twinge a bit but he pressed on, until the scratchiness became audible; then, tutting with disapproval, Olivier took the book away. By this point Aramis was sleeping again. Porthos’ eyes were heavy as well, and he yawned and cuddled Aramis closer as Olivier returned the book to the shelf.

“I’m going to sleep now,” Olivier announced. “I think one more good sleep and I’ll be perfectly well again.” He went over to his uncle and dozing father and kissed them each in turn. “Goodnight.”

“I’m going to go to bed, too,” d’Artagnan said, moving the chair back, as Olivier went into the hallway. “Are you?”

“Dunno.” Porthos chucked and tapped Aramis’ forehead. “Bed?” he prompted, when the man awoke. 

But Aramis shook his head. “I’d like to stay here,” he rasped. “If that’s all right.”

“Suit yourself. You’re the one who’ll wake up with a crick.”

“Mm.” Aramis heaved himself upright, then slumped once again onto Porthos, burying his face in Porthos’ shoulder and falling back asleep almost instantly. “That’s not gonna be any better,” Porthos sighed, and kissed his hair. Then he slung his arms around Aramis’ waist, sniffled, and shut his eyes. D’Artagnan adjusted the blanket around them.

In the morning d’Artagnan felt nearly well again, and rose to do Oliver’s chores so the boy would not have to. When he entered the sitting room, he grinned. Porthos and Aramis had never made it to bed, and instead were still sleeping mostly upright, arms around each other, Porthos’ chin on Aramis’ head and Aramis’ cheek on Porthos’ chest, mouth hanging open. 

They stirred together at the noise of d’Artagnan’s footsteps. He went to stand before them as they both blinked awake.

“Hey, pup,” Porthos grunted; then, to Aramis, “how’re you feelin’?” Aramis only groaned and nuzzled back against him. Porthos frowned. “Worse than yesterday?”

At the concern in his friend’s voice, Aramis raised his head. “No worse,” he croaked. “Throat’s bad. Stomach might be somewhat better.” He slumped back into Porthos’ arms and added, “I just hate being ill.”

“An’ you feel better suffocation’ yourself against my shirt?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Awright then. You want some water?”

“No. Don’t leave me,” Aramis whispered, sitting up far enough to look at him. “I don’t-- I don’t want you to leave.”

For a moment d’Artagnan almost wanted to laugh-- then he very much didn’t. Aramis presented himself as a strong, staid man, especially now that he was a father; but, feeling ill and with his son nowhere in sight, at once Aramis seemed meek and needy. Like d’Artagnan himself, he realized, his friends had not forgotten the hurts of the past. Aramis had not forgotten what it was like to be left, sick and alone, in the middle of the forest-- and Porthos had not forgotten saving him. 

“I won’t leave, Ar,” he swore. “Won’t leave. Don’t fret. Buck up, it’s only a head cold.”

“I know. ‘m sorry. Dunno why I get so clingy.”

Porthos hugged him tighter. “I know. I know. ‘m not leavin’, Ar. C’mere, c’mon, put your head on my shoulder.”

“Mm. ‘right.” Aramis cuddled up to Porthos and shut his eyes again. 

That day, for the first time since d’Artagnan had arrived half a year ago, they did not ride into the village for Sunday Mass. This worried d’Artagnan. Even during harvest, Aramis had set aside Sundays-- Sunday mornings at least-- and that he would not do so now seemed abrupt and ominous.

But in fact, after sleeping another few hours, Aramis seemed a bit better. In the late morning, once they were both awake, he and Olivier curled up in front of the fire and prayed the rosary, then Aramis washed and went into the kitchen for a late breakfast.

“I feel guilty for missing,” Aramis admitted, eating some eggs, “but the widow Pontemercy’s lungs have been bad of late; whatever miasma has come upon us I hardly want to bring it to the whole village.”

“I didn’t mind sleeping in,” Porthos remarked. “Although next time I think I’ll try to be in bed for it.” This earned him a smack on the head, which cheered d’Artagnan more than anything; here was their cheeky, slightly bossy fourth. 

On Monday all were mostly well. It was a full week since they’d returned to the distillery, but-- in Olivier’s words-- that week had not “counted”. Now they made up for lost time. D’Artagnan made pies and stews with the smoked sausages they’d been favored with in Gascony, and they ate the marzipans and sugared fruits. Aramis and Porthos reviewed their finances, serious in the moment but visibly cheerful after. Olivier demanded each and every detail about each and every city, town, and village they’d passed through.

Then at last the novelty faded. For a few weeks there was nothing remarkable, nothing noteworthy-- a routine life that d’Artagnan deeply savored. There were little bumps in the road, of course. Moments of restlessness, memories or nightmares or sudden swells of tears-- these things had not left him. And still the heaviness in his shoulders lightened by the day.

In some distant part of his mind he might have even formed the idea that no real sadness could reach them at the distillery, beyond what he’d carried there himself.

And yet, one morning, it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis is a lifetime member of club I Get A Stomachache When I Have A Regular Head Cold And Nobody Believes Me. Womp. If you are not a member, word of advice: don't join.
> 
> Also It is 100% my headcanon that when Aramis is sick/upset, being spoken to in Spanish comforts him immensely. Now that d'Art knows this and feels comfortable enough to do so, I think from this point on it is something he routinely does for Aramis when he needs it.
> 
> Spanish
> 
>  _buenos días_ = good morning/good day
> 
>  _infermo_ = sick
> 
>  _Guillermo-- ¿es su traductor?_ = Guillermo-- is your translator?
> 
>  _Sí, sí. ¿Habla español, Señor--?_ = Yes, yes. Do you speak Spanish, Mister--?
> 
>  _D’Artagnan. Y sí. Bueno, hablo torpamente. Pero puedo entender perfectamente._ = D’Artagnan. And yes. Well, I speak clumsily. But I can understand perfectly.
> 
>  _Bueno. Bueno, ustedes hablan y, eh, voy a hacer mi mejor esfuerzo para traducer--_ = Well. Well, you two talk, and, eh, I’ll do my best to translate--
> 
>  _Gracias a Dios. Traté de arrastrar a mi hermano pero él es un niño como cuando tiene un resfriado. Muchas, muchas gracias, d’Artagnan. Yo estaba terriblemente nervioso._ = Thank God. I tried to drag my brother along but he’s a child when he has a cold. Many, many thanks, d’Artagnan. I was terribly nervous.
> 
>  _Gracias, hijo mío. Pero por favor, deje de mirar inquieto. Solamente tengo que dormer un poco más._ = Thanks, my son. But please, stop looking so worried. I only need to sleep a little more.
> 
>  _Bueno, ¿puedes permanecer despierto por unos minutos para comer un poco de sopa?_ = Well, can you stay wake for a few minutes to eat a little soup?
> 
>  _Si, puedo._ = Yes, I can.
> 
> Gascon
> 
>  _Es ben, pichon frair._ = It’s all right, little brother.
> 
>  _gran frair_ = big brother


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for animal death (off-screen)

It was mid-November now; the air was growing cooler and the last of the pumpkins were ripening. D’Artagnan came in from tending them to find the other assembled in the sitting room.

Olivier was between Porthos and Aramis on the bench, their arms crossed together so that each was holding a hand of both the others. D’Artagnan’s heart seized up as he saw that Olivier was crying.

Porthos rose, came to his side as if to explain, but before he could d’Artagnan got his answer.

“Ollie, Soleil was very old,” Aramis murmured. “He was here when we moved to this farm.” Olivier sniffled. Eyes flying wide open, d’Artagnan turned to Porthos for confirmation and received a grim nod.

“Come back, Uncle Porthos,” Olivier mumbled, lifting his head. His cheeks were shiny with tears and his nose was running a little. Still he smiled weakly as he caught sight of d’Artagnan.

“Hey, Ollie,” d’Artagnan said quietly.

“Hey, d’Artagnan. Um-- d’Artagnan, Soleil died.” A few fresh tears tumbled down Olivier’s face. Porthos, who had settled back on the bench, stroked his hair gently before taking his hand again.

“I know. I’m so sorry, Ollie.”

“Can you sit with us, please?”

D’Artagnan smiled, knowing how sad it must have looked. “I will, _pichon frair_. I think you’re out of hands, though.”

“Can I sit on your lap?”

Porthos chuckled. It took a bit of squeezing in, but soon they were all sitting on the bench, d’Artagnan in the middle with Olivier in his lap and Porthos and Aramis at each side, still holding hands with each other and with Olivier. D’Artagnan’s arms were around Olivier’s waist, hugging gently.

“There were no cats on my farm growing up,” d’Artagnan mused, after a span of silence. “But we had a dog. Her name was Camparòu. It means mushroom.”

Olivier shifted a little in his lap. “Did she die?”

D’Artagnan nodded, even though the boy was facing away from him. “Yeah, she did. When I was fifteen.”

“Were you sad?”

Behind his eyes, d’Artagnan saw himself as a little child, running the fields with Camparòu, sticking flowers in her fur-- then he saw himself a young man, lying beside her and stroking her belly as she took her last breaths. “I was really sad, Ol,” he told the boy, with a voice that scraped coming out. “I cried for days. I still feel a little sad when I think about her. I loved her a lot.”

All at once Olivier scrambled around in d’Artagnan’s lap until they were facing one another; then he flopped against d’Artagnan’s chest and wrapped his arms around d’Artagnan’s waist. Aramis laid his head on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, next to Olivier’s. Porthos wrapped his arms around the lot of them; they were not long enough to reach fully but were plenty long enough that they all felt the embrace anyway.

“Can we pray for Soleil, Papá?” Olivier requested, voice muffled where his mouth was squished against d’Artagnan’s chest.

“Of course, _hijo m_ _ío_. Do you know the saint that we pray to for animals?”

“No.”

“His name is Saint Francis. He’ll look after Soleil.”

“He’ll pet him?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And scratch his ears?”

“He will.”

“And he looks after Camparòu, too?”

“Of course, Olivier.”

D’Artagnan began to cry, then; it had probably been inevitable all along, but this did him in. He glanced over at Porthos. His friend smiled knowingly, tears in his own eyes, and squeezed d’Artagnan’s shoulder; d’Artagnan nodded at him, pursing his lips to keep quiet.

Aramis had begun to pray. Olivier was joining in between sniffles, when he knew the words, sounding hopeful in the way that only a heartbroken child could manage. D’Artagnan closed his eyes. He let the tears stream silently down, grieving with his brother, though Olivier did not know it and never would.

*

They buried Soleil under the big tree on the hill. Olivier stood stoically while Porthos replaced the cold earth; then, as soon as it was finished, broke down and sobbed into Aramis’ belly. They led him back to the house. Aramis coaxed him into his sleeping clothes, though it was only the afternoon; instead of supper, Porthos baked a big batch of cookies, which they ate in front of the fireplace. D’Artagnan fetched his carving knife and a piece of wood. By the end of the evening he had whittled a little curled-up cat, with a tiny sun imprinted on its back.

Olivier teared up again, but did not cry, when d’Artagnan gave it to him. “Soleil,” he murmured, stroking the carving with a fingertip. “ _Merci_ , _gran frair. Es perfèit_.”

“ _Brigue, pichon frair._ ” d’Artagnan replied, and hugged him tightly. “ _Un sovénguer, o_? _Un memoriau_.”

“ _O._ _Com se dit_ Soleil _en gascon_?”

“Eh, _sorelh_.”

“ _Sorelh_ ,” Olivier repeated quietly.

“ _Seras ben,_ Ol. _Que t’aimi_.”

“ _Que v’s aimi_ , d’Artagnan,” Olivier mumbled, and they hugged again. Not long after, still clutching his carving, he shuffled off to bed.

Aramis was sitting in a chair by the fire. Though there were a few chairs in the room, they were hardly ever used, because it meant that the person in them would have to sit alone. It spoke to Aramis’ current state of mind that he’d prefer this. He sat facing the fire as though staring into it, but his head was down, buried in his hands.

“Hey, Ar.” D’Artagnan went to stand beside him; his leg was too bad for crouching today, but he laid his hands on Aramis’ shoulders. “Step back for a minute, all right? It’s hard losing a pet. I know that. But it’s a normal kind of sadness. It’s something a lot of kids go through. You can’t protect him from every little thing, but on the balance, this isn’t so bad. And when he was upset, did he run off and hide? Hm?”

“No,” Aramis mumbled.

“No. He sought you out. He knows he’s loved.”

“He sought _us_ out,” Aramis corrected. “All three of us.” He sighed. “Thank you, d’Artagnan. I needed to hear that.”

“Anytime.” D’Artagnan smacked his shoulders before drawing his hands away.

For the next few days, Olivier went nowhere without his little wooden Soleil to worry gently between his fingers. He barely spoke, did not smile. He had a few long cries as well-- at least three that d’Artagnan knew of, for two took place in his lap and one on the swing, during which Olivier requested to be alone but d’Artagnan guarded him from afar anyway.

But slowly things returned to normal. Olivier smiled at Porthos’ joke one day at breakfast, and later that afternoon he left his carving on the bookshelf while he went to ride Miel. A few days more and it lived there for good. Still Olivier paused before it now and then, offering a whispered prayer, but the grief tempered gradually with time.

As grief was meant to, d’Artagnan supposed. For despite how much he hated seeing his friend in pain, he knew that this had been a normal sort of pain, and having survived it made the sense of family at the distillery seem that much stronger.

And in the end the support he gave Olivier came back to him tenfold. One evening as he was getting ready for bed there was a knock at the door; Olivier came in with a sheet of drawing paper in his hand.

“ _Adiu_ , Ol. What have you got there?”

“Um.” Olivier’s shyness was typically forgotten; within the safety of their family he hardly ever seemed bashful at all. But in this moment he did. His raised his eyes timidly to meet d’Artagnan’s, chewing on his lip, crinkling up his nose. “I drew you something, and-- I don’t know if I should have or not but-- I love my little Soleil carving and it’s helped me so much that I wanted to-- well.”

He handed the paper over. Lovingly rendered there was a spotty little mushroom.

“ _Camparòu_ ,” Olivier explained. “There are plenty of kinds of dogs in France, so I don’t know what she looked like. I thought I’d draw you this instead. _Un memoriau_. Right?”

For perhaps the first time in his life d’Artagnan was legitimately speechless. He gaped up at Olivier, who smiled warmly, looking far more confident now. “You’d like to be alone for a little while, _o_? I’ll see you soon.”

Once the boy had gone, d’Artagnan unfroze, just enough to fold in on himself and bury his face in his hands; what followed next was loud and messy, and his belly began to ache well before he was finished. But at last, gasping quietly, d’Artagnan composed himself. He fetched a handkerchief and blew his nose tremendously, then wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stared at the drawing a little more.

There was, it seemed, no end to the pain one could find inside themselves if they tried. There was also no end to the relief and the joy that came from finally seeing that pain, respecting it, releasing it-- even just part of it.

And maybe that was the whole point.

*

On the first day of December came the first killing frost. There was always some latent anxiety in watching the world go barren, but d’Artagnan pushed such thoughts from his mind; the plum trees were dormant, as they should have been, and he’d long since harvested all the pumpkins his little garden had produced. It seemed a good day to cook up the last of them. He was standing in the kitchen, flavoring a big pot of creamy pumpkin soup with butter and nutmeg, when Olivier came in, pink-cheeked from the cold.

He hummed approvingly, sniffing the air. “Is it ready yet?”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “Finally, yeah. Pumpkin takes forever to soften.”

“It smells wonderful. You put a lot of butter in.”

“Damn right,” d’Artagnan agreed, and Olivier grinned.

“D’Artagnan. Can I tell you something?”

Olivier did not look upset at all, only a little thoughtful, and so d’Artagnan felt calm as he nodded.

“All right. Well. I just wanted to say--”

He came a little closer, as though about to tell a secret. “I know that Saint Nicolas doesn’t actually leave the presents in my stocking,” Olivier whispered, and d’Artagnan felt his lips twitch as he tried to stay as serious as Olivier obviously wanted him to be.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you think of all of the other saints, none of the rest of them are so obvious about it. And they only help the people who need their help. I don’t _need_ candy, or oranges, or anything like that. Papá and Uncle put the things in my stocking. They tell me it’s him but I realized about it last year. I just wanted you to know. So you wouldn’t think I was silly.”

Olivier was blushing a little. D’Artagnan bent down and hugged him tightly. “I wouldn’t think that was silly, Ol. My father never pretended with me. I wish he had.”

“I know they get sad when they think about me growing up,” Olivier mused. “Especially since-- you know. Since I found out who I am. So I haven’t let them know about Saint Nicolas. Also I kind of like opening my stocking.”

“Olivier, I think those two will fill your stocking for you until you’re thirty if you let them. But I understand.”

December 6 arrived, and even though he might have known his presents did not come from Saint Nicolas, Olivier grinned widely when he entered the sitting room that morning. He plopped to the floor with his stocking in his lap. D’Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis watched fondly as he dug out a pile of candies as well as a package of new charcoal wrapped carefully in a handkerchief. He beamed at the new drawing supplies. Then, still looking thrilled but slightly puzzled as well, he removed the traditional oranges from the bottom of the stocking.

“There are four,” he announced, laying them out of the floor. “It’s always been three.”

“Well, Saint Nicolas knows you’re a generous soul,” Aramis reasoned. “He knew you’d share them and I supposed he wanted there to be enough to go around.”

Olivier looked over at d’Artagnan and winked, in a way that was supposed to be subtle but absolutely was not.

After Olivier had finished with his stocking, they exchanged presents among themselves; mostly they were small trinkets, but as d’Artagnan handed his present to Aramis he found himself positively nervous. A master artisan he was not, nor a terribly pious man. Would Aramis see it as tasteless or trite; would it seem a childish or unwarranted, when d’Artagnan had worked on them for so long--?

Aramis unfolded the linen and spread it out in his lap. Slowly, thoughtfully, he lifted each figure, over a dozen in all: townspeople, animals, Joseph, Mary-- then at last the little Christ child, gazing up from his hay-lined manger. 

“Oh,” Aramis breathed. He said nothing else then, but after a moment bowed his head and covered his eyes with a hand. 

“Aw, Aramis,” Porthos tutted, smiling warmly.

“It’s wonderful!” Olivier enthused. “He loves it!”

Aramis sniffled and wiped his eyes; when he raised his head, his cheeks were deeply crimson. “I do,” he rasped. “Thank you, d’Artagnan.” He laid the nativity set carefully aside then went to where d’Artagnan sat on the other bench, settled beside him, and hugged him close.

“You’re welcome,” d’Artagnan whispered. Aramis sniffled again, into d’Artagnan’s shirtfront, and d’Artagnan kissed the top of his hair. 

They stayed that way a little while, as Aramis composed himself. D’Artagnan cuddled him contentedly, delighted both by his reaction and by the simple fact of having a nice, long hug.

When eventually Aramis sat back, they ate their oranges-- with no small amount of relish. Not long after they finished there came a knock at the door, and Aramis rose to answer it. He returned looking nearly happy enough to weep anew.

“It’s Gustave,” he announcing, passing Porthos the letter. “He’d like to visit for New Year’s.”

“Oh!” Olivier exclaimed, looking up from where he was carefully testing each new pencil. “We haven’t seen Uncle Gustave in almost a year!”

“I suppose you’ve never met my brother, d’Artagnan,” Aramis remarked. “You’ll love him.”

“We lived with Uncle Gustave when I was a baby. Did you know that?”

“I did,” d’Artagnan agreed, Aramis’ smile catching. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

*

After this, Gustave’s visit was all anyone could think about; Aramis, who seemed to be much closer with his brother now than he had been eight years ago, spoke endlessly about the food they’d prepare during his visit. Porthos, who seemed nearly as fond of him, began a thorough cleaning of the entire main house. Olivier had been excited all along but grew moreso when he learned that two of his cousins would visit as well.

D’Artagnan was excited too, for himself and for the rest of them. But as the weather was growing colder, though he tried to hide it, his leg was growing steadily worse, until suddenly he found there were more bad days than good. He bit it back, limping as little as he could. His hip began to ache nearly as badly as his ankle with all his attempts to correct his mangled gait, and at night he lay awake for hours trying to breathe through the pain. Everybody was so cheerful that he hated the idea of dampening their mood. He resolved to tough it out, at least until after the holidays-- but then, one morning, he could not hide it any longer.

Because one morning he got out of bed, stood up, fell, and could not get up again.

The jolt of the fall had worsened the pain to truly agonizing levels, plunging him into what would prove to be the worst bout of it since his initial injury. The very fibers of his muscles shook with weakness. He lay curled on the floor as the sun rose out the window, torn between the indignity of shouting for help and the indignity of pissing himself there on his bedroom floor.

In the end he chose the former. It was Aramis who opened his door and found him there; at the back of his mind d’Artagnan spent a tiny moment wishing it had been Porthos, but at least it wasn’t Olivier. Aramis rushed to heft him back onto the bed.

“I need--” he gasped out. “Oh, shit--”

“What? What?”

“I need a piss,” d’Artagnan choked, then burst out laughing, heaving so hard that the pressure on his bladder only worsened. “I can’t walk to the washroom.”

Aramis rushed out and returned a moment later with a chamberpot, setting it on the floor at d’Artagnan’s feet. “Can you stand on your own?” he murmured, and d’Artagnan started to laugh again.

“No,” he bleated, and so that was how it was that he took his morning piss balanced with one foot on the ground and one hand on Aramis’ shoulder.

When it was over d’Artagnan lay back on the bed and shook with the effort. Aramis perched beside him and brushed the sweaty hair back from his forehead. “I knew it was getting worse with the cold,” he mused. “But I didn’t know it was so bad. D’Artagnan, I wish you’d told me.”

“You’ve all b-been in such a g-good mood. I didn’t want to--”

“All right, nevermind. We’re not even going to go there because I know what you’ll say. Rest today, my friend. Your garden’s asleep for the winter anyway.”

Pain and embarrassment, combined with the somehow-wistful tenderness of these words, had d’Artagnan blinking back a sudden swell of tears. Aramis tutted, thumbed the shape of a cross over d’Artagnan’s brow.

“Shall I leave you be?” he asked quietly. “Or shall I stay?”

 _Leave_ , d’Artagnan thought, but heard his voice crying out, “stay!”

Time forgot how to move then. D’Artagnan lay on the bed, suffocating under the weight of the pain, not knowing if it was later that day or maybe the next day or maybe a hundred years later that the intensity built to the point of nausea and Aramis hefted him upright and rubbed his back while he retched up mouthfuls of bile, soothing him just as he soothed his son. It was humiliating. And yet it was also ridiculously cathartic, and all those moments of illness and injury and abject loneliness, all the things he’d borne stoically during the war, all seemed to open up again, and then heal with the same synchrony, until he was weeping freely with the memory of it, and the easing of it.

When the storm finally calmed, Aramis washed his face. He did not stop once it was clean, only wet the cloth again and began to blot his heated forehead. “Please let me give you something,” Aramis murmured. “Please. Willow, at least.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, gritted his teeth again pain and exhaustion, and tried to speak coherently. “I’ve just managed to _stop_ vomiting. Give me willow and I’ll only start again.”

“Opium, then.”

“We’ve talked about this before.” Something shifted on Aramis’ face then, and d’Artagnan groaned. “You have some, don’t you? You got some for me.”

“Yes.” Aramis sighed. “But I can see now that all I’ve done is given you an option you didn’t want.”

It was true-- he didn’t want the option. But yes, goddamnit, he wanted the opium; it might have left him feeling woozy and tipsy and sort of mentally constipated, but by _fuck_ it had made his leg feel wonderful.

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t like how it makes me feel, Aramis. Thank you. But no.”

“Then what can I do?” Fretting afresh, Aramis dipped another cloth in the water basin and blotted the sweat from the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. D’Artagnan shuddered at the feeling, but also hoped he’d never stop.

“You’re doing more than I can describe, my friend,” d’Artagnan breathed. “Being alone was the worst of it. Being looked after-- it’s--” he cleared his throat, loathe to weep again. “You know, I’m not even sure the leg was the worst of it.”

“No?”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “1635. We drank from a stream we shouldn’t’ve. Half the men down in hours-- and not just with vomiting.”

Aramis’ nose wrinkled up in sympathy, but his face sobered as d’Artagnan’s did. “It wasn’t the sort of thing you just got out of your system. Men were dying from it, two or three a day. We didn’t have enough ale to go ‘round; the healthy were given none and the sick were given too little.”

“Were you ill?”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“But you took none, I assume?”

“No. How could I, when my men needed it? But I was-- sick, Aramis. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to die. But the worst of it wasn’t facing death. It was knowing that there was nobody there who’d-- who’d sit with me, through it. At least nobody I’d want to. I don’t want-- I’m not saying this to make you feel bad, but I th-thought of you. You and Porthos and Athos. Not hallucinating, I mean, just-- holding your faces in my minds. Picturing that you were with me. That you were-- h-holding my hand and-- and telling me I was safe. And that it was all right. And I could let go if I needed to. I thought of you, doing what you’re doing now. And it helped it hurt a little less. But I still knew-- I still knew-- four days I lay in my tent, shaking and shitting myself and-- waiting. And I knew I’d be alone when it came.”

Aramis’ face was pale as parchment, his eyes looking all the darker for it. “What happened?” he rasped.

D’Artagnan shook himself. “I lived,” he huffed, shrugging. “Maybe it was one of those prayers you said for me.”

Aramis let out a husky laugh, cast the cloth aside, and used the pad of his thumb to wipe the fresh tears from d’Artagnan’s cheeks. D’Artagnan returned the favor.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, smiling despite himself. “My leg might hurt like hell itself fucking me. But it will never be as bad as that. That’s in the past, I know.”

“It is,” Aramis agreed, firmly. “You’re far from alone, my friend. Do you think you could sleep?”

And suddenly he was so tired that sleeping through the pain seemed halfway feasible. “Yeah. I think I could try.”

“Just lie down,” Aramis told him, “and close your eyes.” D’Artagnan curled up on his side and did so; a moment later there was a shift in the mattress and an arm draped warmly around him.

He huffed out a laugh. “You don’t have to, Ar. Really.”

“Try and fucking stop me after _that_ fucking story,” Aramis replied, voice muffled against the back of d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Go to sleep, d’Artagnan. I’ll be here when you wake.”

“And if you need the chamber pot?” d’Artagnan teased, already feeling himself begin to drowse.

“All right. I’ll be here when you wake, and if I’m not I swear it’s only because I’ve needed a piss, or got thirsty or the like, and I won’t be outside of shouting distance.”

“Mm,” d’Artagnan agreed, and, somewhat unexpectedly, fell asleep.

*

The next thing he knew it was pitch black outside, and Aramis’ voice was rousing him to sit up and drink. A hand supported his head. D’Artagnan pursed his lips at the rim of the cup and tentatively sipped a mouthful of creamy milk, sweeter than it should have been.

“You made me froth,” he croaked, when Aramis pulled the cup away.

“I made you froth.”

“Can you-- do me another favor?”

“Of course, my friend.”

“Can we not call it froth when it’s for me? Let’s say honeyed milk or something. It’s a bit more manful.”

Aramis burst out laughing. It was slightly hysterical, and this combined with the darkness outside prompted him to ask, “how long?”

“Don’t fret. It’s only just midnight. You weren’t asleep for more than ten hours.”

“No, I mean-- how many days?”

Aramis’s heart was in his eyes. “Only today, d’Artagnan. It’s only been today.”

Only today. Only today? How could so much pain fit into the span between two sunrises?

“I ruined your day,” he mumbled, feeling sleep trying to pull him under again.

“You did no such thing. I was very productive-- I think I said my rosary four times.”

D’Artagnan let out a little breath that tried and failed to be a laugh. Aramis brushed the hair back from his face.

“All I wanted to do was get some, eh, _honeyed milk_ into you. You should sleep again now. Is it any better?”

“A little,” he replied, and it was.

“Good. Sleep now.”

*

In the morning he woke alone, but within ten minutes Aramis peeked in to check on him; d’Artagnan had the feeling he’d been doing so regularly since leaving the room. He helped him up; then, at d’Artagnan’s slightly wheedling insistence, helped him to the washroom.

“It’s better,” d’Artagnan repeated a few times along the way; the words were a reassurance to Aramis and also a declaration to himself of something he could hardly believe. Yesterday he hadn’t been sure he’d ever walk again.

Aramis kept up a whispered monologue of grateful prayers, but still insisted quite firmly that d’Artagnan stay in bed that day. D’Artagnan didn’t argue. He was utterly exhausted and, being satisfied in his use of the washroom, felt that he could easily fall back asleep. His leg throbbed steadily. But though it was worse than usual, it was nothing compared to the merciless agony he’d endured the day before, and when Aramis pulled the blankets up over him gently, he slept again, uncaring of the sunlight streaming through the window.

When he woke again Olivier was reading in the chair at his bedside.

“Morning, Ol,” d’Artagnan croaked; this throat was dry, and he was hungry and still in pain; nevertheless his leg felt a little better every time he thought of it.

“Hello, d’Artagnan, but it isn’t morning.”

“What time is it?”

“It was almost two o’clock when I came in. It’s probably half-past by now.”

“Mm.”

“D’Artagnan.” Olivier climbed up onto the bed and plopped down beside him. “I was wondering something.”

D’Artagnan bit back a sigh. He’d sworn to himself that never, not even at the worst of his pain, would he ever be grumpy towards Olivier-- and yet, he was exhausted, and hardly in the mood for questions now. But what followed was not about Athos.

“You have a cane,” Olivier said, looking away so that d’Artagnan did not feel forced to meet his eyes. “I saw you unpacking it with the rest of your Paris things. But now it only leans behind your bureau. It would help your leg to not hurt so very badly, so why don’t you use it?”

D’Artagnan thought a while, came up with a few different responses before finally huffing, “I don’t have a good reason to tell you.”

“Only I hope it isn’t pride. Because I think that would be the silliest reason to be in pain.”

D’Artagnan snorted. “Ollie, you’re a smart kid, but-- it’s hard to explain.”

“I was a grown-up once,” Olivier reminded him, then sprang off the bed and went to retrieve the cane from behind the bureau. He held it up, and d’Artagnan stared. It wasn’t an ugly thing, to be sure; in the moment when it had been an inarguable necessity, he’d bothered to spend enough on a well-carved, carefully polished piece, with a modest stone laid into the knob on top. Was it pride, then? Or was it instead the memories the thing brought, the ages spent prone on a hospital cot, walking one gamey step per minute, attended by matrons on both sides--

“It’s rather handsome, I think,” Olivier remarked. “And you could hit someone with it. If you needed to.” D’Artagnan cracked a weary smile as Olivier came back to the bed, and laid the cane beside him. “Maybe just until the spring?”

“I don’t--”

“ _Charlot_.”

D’Artagnan startled. Olivier’s pale eyes were somber but earnest and in that moment he remembered just how much of a father Athos had been to him, when he wasn’t busy being his brother.

“I think you should use it,” the boy said firmly, and nudged it closer.

When he went to the kitchen for supper, settled into his chair and propped the cane beside himself, nobody said a word.

After supper, Porthos and Olivier headed into the sitting room, as usual. A hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder kept him in place, though, and a moment later Aramis set a cup of tea on the table before him.

“I rode to the apothecary today,” Aramis said quietly. “I asked his advice on something with the same effects as willow but that’s milder to the stomach. This was his recommendation. It’s called meadowsweet.”

“Meadowsweet,” d’Artagnan repeated, lifting the cup up for a sniff. The tea really did smell sweet, and the slightest bit nutty, and when he took a sip the taste was actually quite pleasant.

“It’s hanging to the right of the window,” Aramis said, pointing to a bundle of herbs that was a purplish green, with delicate white flowers. “He recommends two cups a day, three if the pain is exceptional. You should feel a difference within a few days. Take one leaf and one stem with flowers; crumble them and steep them in hot water for two minutes, then-- no. Stop it, d’Artagnan. There are things worth your tears, and a cup of tea is not one of them. Drink it, and let’s see how you feel. And if you bring your supper back up you can blame the apothecarist, not me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I am correct in my research, in 17th century France the Christmastime gift-giving would in fact have taken place on December 6, St. Nicholas' feast day. Please correct me if I'm wrong :)
> 
> Gascon  
>  _Merci, gran frair. Es perfèit._ = Thanks, big brother. It’s perfect.  
>  _Brigue, pichon frair. Un sovénguer, o? Un memoriau._ = You’re welcome, little brother. A keepsake, yes? A memorium.  
>  _O. Com se dit Soleil en gascon?_ = Yes. How do you say Soleil in Gascon?  
>  _Seras ben, Ol. Que t’aimi._ = It’ll be all right, Ol. I love you.  
>  _Que v’s aimi, d’Artagnan._ = I love you, d’Artagnan.  
>  _Adiu_ = Hello
> 
> Spanish  
>  _hijo mío_ = my son
> 
> French  
>  _Charlot_ = diminutive of Charles (Charlie)


	11. Chapter 11

D’Artagnan spent a few more days rising only for meals and the washroom; the attack had left him drained and shaky. Still his leg itself felt the best that it had since the injury. The use of the cane, combined with the meadowsweet tea-- which his stomach accepted easily-- seemed to offer some measure of hope at last.

Still he did not leave the house for nearly a week. When he finally did so the world was a grey and wintery place, and he found himself caught in-between gratitude towards the effective treatment and the ever-dawning realization that his leg was indeed something to be treated-- never cured.

“It’s just a strange feeling,” he reflected to Porthos, as the two of them sat on the bench outside the kitchen, “knowing it’s never going away, you know? Sometimes I fall asleep wondering if I’ll wake up and it will be healed. But it never is.”

“’sthat tea helpin’? It’s sure makin’ the kitchen smell nice.”

“It’s helping. It is. But there’s nothing to say it won’t ever get bad again.”

Porthos slung an arm around him. “That ain’t an easy thing, pup. But you made it through this time.”

“And I’ve been a grumpy, miserable bastard for weeks now, and everyone’s tired of me.”

“You _have_ been a grumpy, miserable bastard,” Porthos echoed, and tightened his grip; the significance of what he had _not_ repeated went unspoken, but warmed d’Artagnan nevertheless.

On Christmas Eve he felt well enough to go to the village. He’d skipped Sunday Mass two weeks running now-- prompting Aramis to say an additional set of prayers over him both times-- but he was ready to see a little more of the world, and ready to feel like a part of it again. Still he paused, leaning on his cane, as they came to the horse enclosure.

Porthos rested a hand on his back. “The thing you gotta remember,” he murmured, under his breath; d’Artagnan braced himself for the latest bit of hard-hitting wisdom. “The thing you gotta remember is you are a skinny-arsed little Gascon twig, an’ I could lift you onto that horse if you had _two_ shit legs.”

D’Artagnan heaved out a laugh. He covered his eyes with his free hand and spent a moment steadying his breath, then let Porthos lead him to Nuage’s side. He seriously doubted that he could have done this with two bad legs. But with one good leg and one Porthos, he was up on Nuage’s back in no time, feeling stronger than he had in weeks. He gave his cane to Porthos to hold, and took up the reigns.

In the village, in the square outside the church, d’Artagnan greeted amiably the surprising handful of people who’d noticed his absence. A few eyes flicked to the cane, but nobody mentioned it. It was raining lightly, which made the mood inside all the cozier, and d’Artagnan, who really only went to church to please Aramis, found himself unusually taken by the celebratory service.

After Mass had ended they bid their neighbors goodnight and happy Christmas. Then, huddled warmly together they stepped into the square, to find that the gentle rain had turned to snow while they’d been inside.

“Oh!” Olivier gasped, then grinned and reached out to catch it. “It didn’t snow last year, d’Artagnan. Not one flake! I’d missed it.”

They walked the horses through the peaceful night. At his back, Porthos was a warm wall; at his side Olivier was neglecting to guide Miel in favor of watching the snow, and beyond him, Aramis was carefully keeping his son on the path.

The snow melted in d’Artagnan’s hair and ran down his face. Before long he realized that tears, too, were falling, but he let them come; they were quiet, unforced, and he felt safe in shedding them.

At last they reached the horse enclosure at the edge of the distillery. Porthos dismounted, then reached back up to help d’Artagnan do the same; catching sight of his face, he chuckled.

“D’Artagnan!” Olivier clucked, coming to their side.

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan snorted, wiping his streaming eyes. “But I hope you didn’t think I’d make it through my first Christmas without, eh?”

Olivier smiled, and shrugged. Porthos wrapped an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and then Aramis came over and did the same on his other side, and then before he quite knew that it was going to happen they were all embracing him, all three, just as they had the morning he’d decided to stay there. D’Artagnan hid his face in Aramis’ collar, gave into a moment of quiet blubbering. It didn’t take long, though, to realize that something was different-- and when he’d finally pinned it down he gasped anew.

Happy crying. What was happening now was nothing mournful, nothing even unclear or in between-- it was overjoyed and unadulterated _happy fucking crying_.

*

The _réveillon_ meal was as decadent as d’Artagnan remembered from his childhood, though the food was different. As a boy he’d eaten goose, stuffed with prune. Here, Aramis and Porthos had prepared a turkey stuffed with roasted chestnuts; there was also garlic soup, buttery mushrooms, and lovely, crusty bread. For dessert there was quince paste and cheese, and gingerbread. D’Artagnan had not contributed much to the cooking but had purchased a bag of walnuts, a bag of dates, and a few bottles of red wine imported from Gascony.

“Not to support the competition,” he noted, as he brought them out.

Aramis scoffed and proffered his cup eagerly; “even _my_ appetite for plum concoctions is not insatiable,” he declared.

Around two o’clock Christmas morning, Oliver put his head down and fell asleep at the table.

Porthos chuckled and plucked him from his chair.

“You always ask why we can’t have _réveillon_ before Mass, _cheri_ , an’ you know this is why,” he teased, as Olivier gave a sleepy little moan and wrapped his arms around Porthos’ neck.

D’Artagnan poured some more wine while Porthos put Olivier to bed. Nobody was drunk, but he and Aramis were pleasantly tipsy; for five minutes now Aramis had been smoothing his thumb over the little wooden sheep of the nativity set, which had been afforded a place of honor right in the middle of their overcrowded table. D’Artagnan, in turn, rubbed at a notch in the table. It was not the only scar in the wood, but it was the first he himself had created; he had done so, in fact, while carving the nativity set. Although he’d sworn loudly in the moment, he felt oddly fond of the mark now.

“That was fucking incredible,” d’Artagnan commented, not for the first time.

“I ate too much,” Aramis groaned, but did not seem unhappy about it.

“I might be able to eat again by next Christmas.”

“Then you didn’t eat enough.”

D’Artagnan laughed and did not accept the walnut Aramis thrust at him.

“Do you think we could sleep here?” Aramis mumbled.

“Think how nice your bed will feel.”

Aramis grunted. “‘slong way away.”

“Do you remember--” d’Artagnan began, then cleared his throat and started again. “Do you remember my first Christmas in the musketeers?”

“Do _you_?”

“Barely,” d’Artagnan admitted. “All I wanted to do was get drunk enough not to miss my da. But I have such a clear memory of you making me eat a piece of gingerbread. I don’t know if you thought it would cheer me up or just help sop up all the wine. Anyway, I’m pretty sure it made me sick.”

“You had better be getting to the cheerful bit,” Aramis muttered.

“Always my endgame.” D’Artagnan smiled sleepily, letting his chin fall onto one fist. “I just-- I hope you know how much all of this means to me. Everything. Not just the special days but the other days too. The three of you saved my life then, and you’ve done it again now. I’m only sorry it’s taken so long this time. But half a year later and I think it’s final seeping in. And the longer I’m here-- the less I even remember the eight years I wasn’t. So-- that’s all. That’s what I was getting to.”

Aramis thought a long moment before carefully declaring: “d’Artagnan, one day I must teach you the difference between _cheerful_ and _maudlin with a happy ending_.”

“They’re close enough for me,” d’Artagnan replied.

*

In the morning nobody was hungry for breakfast; they did their chores quickly, all the while admiring the fine coating of snow that had settled overnight. When they finished it seemed only proper to go for a walk in it. So they bundled up, in sweaters and cloaks and gloves, and set off, through the orchard and along the trail beyond, admiring the stillness and the silence of a snow-covered world.

D’Artagnan’s leg held up admirably. Nevertheless, when they were nearly back at the distillery he gave up on the cane and let Porthos take him by the arm instead. It was steadier. It was also worlds cozier, and leaning against his friend, watching their breath steam in the chilly air, d’Artagnan was taken once again by a feeling of utter contentment.

The snow had melted by Gustave’s arrival a few days later. The ground was damp and just softer than frozen as the four of them stood and waved down the road at the approaching cart. Months earlier d’Artagnan might have felt awkward. Now he felt-- well, still a little awkward-- but mostly excited to meet some of Aramis’ blood family, who in some ways must have been his family as well.

The cart pulled up to the house, and four d’Herblays dismounted. D’Artagnan, glad he’d thought to ask for their names ahead of time, recognized Gustave, his second wife Roseanne, and two of his younger children, Francine and Toussaint.

Olivier cried out in delight at the sight of his cousins. He had always been terribly shy around the village children, all but hiding behind Porthos’ legs when one said hello; now he sprang towards Francine, who hugged him tightly. Then he and Toussaint hugged as well.

Aramis, by all accounts a grown man, reacted with equal fervor; he flung himself at Gustave and stayed with his face pressed into his brother’s shoulder for a long, long while. Gustave chuckled and held him tightly. Porthos and Rosanne hugged, then contented themselves to watch the brothers in their moment of reunion, smiling fondly. At last Aramis let Gustave go.

“You must be d’Artagnan,” Gustave said, coming up to kiss d’Artagnan’s cheeks, once he’d had a chance to hug Porthos as well.

“Gustave,” d’Artagnan greeted, patting his back. “I’m so glad to meet you, finally.”

They drew apart, and d’Artagnan, catching proper sight of him for the first time, couldn’t help but startle. Gustave was clean-shaven and short-haired. But beyond this he looked _alarmingly_ like Aramis, to the point that d’Artagnan was sure that if Aramis changed his hair their own mother would have needed a moment to tell them apart in a dimly lit room.

Aramis laughed, noting d’Artagnan’s disconcerted reaction. “Imagine the pranks we could have played as children, if only Tavo here weren’t such a stick in the mud.”

Gustave smiled serenely. D’Artagnan was hit by a sudden, even-more-startling realization that even now he had very little idea what Aramis’ childhood had been like. All the better he was meeting Gustave at last, then.

Francine and Toussaint, who also had the family look but not to such extreme degrees, were immediately hauled off to the barn by Olivier’s pleas to meet the new cats. The adults unloaded the cart and carried the luggage inside.

They assembled in the sitting room; d’Artagnan knew that Porthos had quite deliberately chosen to share a bench with him, and though he was more curious than anxious, he was still grateful for this. Gustave sat on the opposite bench. Roseanne, with a chuckle, pulled a chair up to the side and sat there, allowing Aramis to sink down beside his brother and wrap his arms around him once again. Gustave smiled indulgently and hugged him back.

“How have you been, little brother?”

“Wonderful,” Aramis sighed, and d’Artagnan’s heart swelled up with impossible affection. There was no lie in Aramis’ voice; despite all the anguish that d’Artagnan had dragged him through, he really did feel that things had been wonderful.

“René has spoken of you so much,” Gustave continued, to d’Artagnan. “The letter I received when you agreed to join the business was-- beyond excitement.”

“Then he’s doing me too much credit, and himself too little. I didn’t _deign_ to come and join a business. Your brother-- these three-- well, they held out their hands to me when I wasn’t doing so well.”

“Regardless, you’re here,” Rosanne chirped. “We late arrivals have got to believe we add something, eh?”

“How long have you been married?”

“Three years now. _This_ one,” she said, indicating Porthos, “missed our wedding!”

“ _This_ one had to, y’know, look after the damn place?”

D’Artagnan smiled, seeing now that the tender fondness at the distillery extended here too.

Before long, Olivier and his cousins wandered in, pink-cheeked and sniffling from the cold.

“Did you meet the new cats?” Rosanne prompted, and they nodded.

Then, as one, France and Toussaint turned to d’Artagnan and whispered, “ _adiu, Mossur_ _d’Artagnan_.”

D’Artagnan startled, and shot a quizzical look at Olivier, who shrugged.

“They wanted to say hello to you in Gascon because they wanted to impress you. They think you’re very handsome,” Olivier related, and d’Artagnan felt his face heat up. Handsome? _Him_? Once upon a time, yes. Now he was badly scarred and perpetually scowling, leaning on a cane to boot. At least his hair was down past his chin again. Still, what was handsome about a half-lame old captain?

Luckily Francine and Toussaint were blushing just as badly, and the subject was changed. The children gathered around the fireplace and warmed their hands by it; Francine took off her boots and warmed her feet there too, causing the adults to laugh.

At some point, the discussion turned to distilling. Once Aramis and Gustave had gotten going, there were words flying between them so fast and with so much Latin and technicalities interspersed between the French and the Spanish that d’Artagnan stopped bothering to listen. Porthos and Roseanne shared a knowing look.

Then Porthos rose, announcing that he would go and look after things in the kitchen; d’Artagnan volunteered to help. Rosanne stood as well.

“We’ll let the boys catch up, eh?” she said, and Aramis stopped talking, gave a meek nod and put his head on his brother’s shoulder. Gustave smiled, and kissed his forehead.

The feast underway in the kitchen nearly rivaled their _réveillon_ , and even still it was nothing compared to what they had planned for the following night, New Year’s Eve. Even with three of them working it took an hour to finish everything up. Then they called for the others to join them, and the eight of them crowded, shoulder-to-shoulder, around the laden kitchen table.

Aramis, Porthos, and Roseanne commanded most of the conversation. Olivier and his cousins were silently occupied with each other, playing whatever little games children played when the grown-ups weren’t looking. D’Artagnan himself was happy by now just to listen to the others. Gustave seemed to feel the same; there was an utter peace in the notion of simply sitting back and hearing the voices of loves ones chattering away.

Still Gustave was roused to conversation when Aramis issued a challenge. After dessert he brought to the table a bottle of his finest brandy and five cups, and declared that they could compare brandies. Gustave, as though he’d been expecting this, had brought a bottle of his own. The adults spend the next hour sipping one, then the other, being prompted to comment on various aspects even though everybody but the two brothers seemed to think both tasted just about the same.

“Same?” Aramis scoffed, at one point. “He doesn’t even mind what flowers his honey’s produced from!”

“This has been aging longer than you’ve been in business!” Gustave retorted, shortly thereafter. D’Artagnan, Porthos, and Roseanne were only spectating by now, until eventually food and liquor converged upon them and they put the children and themselves to bed.

“Just like we’re on the road again,” Porthos laughed. Gustave and Roseanne were in his bed, while the cousins were in Olivier’s; this left Olivier bunking with Aramis, and Porthos here with him. D’Artagnan patted the mattress beside him, raising an eyebrow. Porthos laughed, blew out the candle, and got into bed, facing d’Artagnan but not touching him.

“I like Gustave,” d’Artagnan mused, watching the vague movements of Porthos’ features in the dark. The brothers were identical, but in personality they were nothing alike. If anyone, the soft-spoken, keen-eyed Gustave reminded him of-- Athos. “I’m glad Aramis is closer with him now.”

“Yeah. Jesus, I’m so glad one of us had a family, y’know? Not just cause we had somewhere to go. I mean, that was a big fuckin’ deal, don’t get me wrong. But more ‘n that-- thank God one of us grew up that way. Knew how to do it. Imagine if it was just me. I wouldn’t’ve had the first clue.”

“You would’ve been wonderful.”

They lay in the darkness for a few minutes, and d’Artagnan almost thought that Porthos had fallen asleep. Then there was a little sigh. “He died, did I tell you? Belgarde. ‘bout three years back.”

D’Artagnan thought a moment. “I don’t know what to say to that. _I’m sorry_ doesn’t seem right.”

“You can say you’re sorry. He was a shit father, an’ a pretty shit man. But he _was_ a man. An’ he died alone.”

“Did he deserve any better?”

Porthos was silent another long moment. “I cried for him. Sure as hell never thought I would. But a couple days after the letter came from Treville, I just started cryin’, outta nowhere, an’ halfway through I realized it was for him. Not ‘cause he meant anythin’ to me. Just ‘cause-- well. Ain’t like he was happy.”

Overwhelmed by Porthos’ compassion, d’Artagnan reached out to him-- and in the darkness, ended up poking his beard. Porthos startled, then burst out laughing. “What the hell? That was my fuckin’ beard.”

“You’re a good person. You’re just, y’know. A good fucking person.”

“I dunno about that. Only, you only get one chance about who’s gonna be your father, y’know? I didn’t-- I didn’t get to love mine. The least I could try to do is not hate him. For me. Not him.”

“Athos got another chance,” d’Artagnan mused.

“Nobody more deservin’,” Porthos grunted. “Now are we gonna sleep or are we gonna spill our guts ‘til sunrise?”

“All right. Don’t take all the blankets.”

“Don’t fart.”

“Don’t be unreasonable,” d’Artagnan snorted, and closed his eyes.

_La Saint-Sylvestre_ was celebrated spectacularly the next evening. It was a feast to outdo the previous’ night’s, and Christmas’, and as 1640 slipped away d’Artagnan relaxed into the slightly noisy yet undeniably cozy scene. Though the children were in bed by one, the adults stayed awake long beyond this. They chatted about everything, and nothing, finally leaving the table around three and stumbling into the sitting room, where Aramis and Gustave fell asleep on one bench and the others sprawled out before the fire. It wasn’t long before d’Artagnan put his head down on Porthos’ legs and shut his eyes. He did not quite sleep, but half-listened to Porthos and Roxanne talking and laughing quietly until finally Porthos gasped out, “shit, it’s gone five,” then hauled him up from the floor and into bed.

*

Gustave and his family stayed for the first week of January as well, and Aramis, who was generally cheery in any case, was nothing short of blissful the entire time. He trailed his big brother, beaming constantly, a pup now in his own right. Nobody had the heart to tease him for it, least of all Gustave, who seemed quite in tune with his little brother’s clinginess and never let more than a few minutes pass without brushing back Aramis’ hair or putting an arm around his shoulders.

Porthos huffed out a laugh when d’Artagnan mentioned this one night. “We weren’t in the best of form when we showed up on his stoop,” he mused. “Gettin’ to him-- well, we had trouble finding wet nurses along the way, an’ Ollie had some trouble feedin’ in any case. He was pretty sick, by the time we got to Gustave’s.”

In the darkness d’Artagnan lay very still. He’d never heard this story before, and knew it could not have been an easy one to tell.

“An’ Aramis, y’know, he hadn’t seen his brother since their mother died in ’29, an’ before that only twice since joinin’ the army. An’ Gustave-- well, you can see, he’s just about as kind a soul as they come, but I remember gettin’ there, finally, and we were just so tired and beat down and sorry for ourselves-- we wondered if he’d even help us. He did. Obviously. I feel awful now, when I think about doubtin’ him even for an instant. But, you know."

He did. D’Artagnan’s mind, naturally, brought him back to the moment of his own homecoming. It had been a frightening thing, returning to someone from his old life when his life in between had been so bitterly different. Of course he’d worried over their acceptance of him. And he’d had a passing notion, that it might have been this way for Aramis too, but he’d never really thought on it for long. Now he could see it clearly.

“Anyway,” Porthos continued. “I think they were only playmates growin’ up, but now it’s hero worship, no doubt about it. Innit cute? Forty years old an’ he falls asleep in his brother’s lap.”

D’Artagnan was fairly sure that Aramis would not like to be called _cute_. Still there was really no other word to describe the way that Aramis seemed ready to weep with joy every time Gustave so much as touched his arm or spoke a kind word to him-- which happened approximately two hundred times a day, so that Aramis was barely more than a puddle of sheer happiness.

D’Artagnan knew just how he felt.

Inevitably, though, the day came when Gustave and his family had to return to their own distillery; it was a cloudy morning, and they stood assembled in the yard, with the carriage loaded. Olivier and his cousins hugged as a trio for a solid minute. Aramis and Gustave stayed in one another’s arms far longer than this, and when they finally raised their heads, there were tears in Aramis’ eyes.

Gustave pressed one last kiss to his little brother’s brow. Porthos stepped forward and Gustave primly transferred Aramis from his own arms to Porthos’; and then, they were gone.

Aramis was gloomy after his brother’s departure. That night Porthos made him a mug of hot spiced wine and sat with him before the fire, Olivier drew him a picture of a sunflower, and d’Artagnan read aloud from one of his Spanish poetry books. Aramis, a bit unexpectedly, accepted the comfort without a shred of protest. When the wine was finished he curled up with his head on Porthos’ shoulder; Porthos stroked through his hair until his eyes drifted shut.

D’Artagnan put Olivier to bed as soon as it seemed reasonable. Then he returned to the sitting room, where he and Porthos wedged Aramis in between their bodies and held him tightly until at last, with a gusting sigh, he declared that he was all right and was ready to be let go.

“Right,” Porthos replied, not letting go in the slightest. “But are you really?”

“I am,” Aramis said. “I’m just-- also sort of not.”

“Then stop being an idiot and let us hug you,” d’Artagnan huffed. “I hardly think the three of us stand on ceremony.”

Aramis sank slowly back into their arms and put his head on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “I went more than ten years, living a week’s ride away from Gustave and never thinking twice about it,” he mused. “Now I’m afraid I’m quite attached.”

“No reason you shouldn’t be,” Porthos soothed. “We ain’t jealous, I promise.”

Aramis gave a thoughtful little noise and then all at once sagged completely against d’Artagnan, splaying across his chest like a half-empty sack of grain. Porthos curled against him, slowly rubbing his back.

“If you needa be sad a li’l while,” Porthos hummed, “then be sad, love. We’re here. All right?”

“I know,” Aramis huffed. “I’m a lucky man. Truly, I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is this is the holiday-ish chapter and also as I probably will not update again before Christmas, I will say, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all who follow this story :) I appreciate your comments, kudos, and readership, and hope you continue to enjoy the final chapters of this fic!


	12. Chapter 12

1641 was not some new land. D’Artagnan was not well where he once was sick, whole where he once was fractured-- and yet, he felt as though he had passed over the halfway mark on the journey he’d started eight months earlier, arriving fleabitten and frayed on the doorstep of three gracious men for the second time in his life. He felt _hopeful_ , so deeply he could barely comprehend it.

January slipped by peacefully, a phenomenon which d’Artagnan was not yet used to but was beginning to enjoy. Wintry weather meant more time for all manner of cozy things. He and Olivier practiced speaking Gascon for hours at a time, while Porthos poured through book after book and Aramis sprawled before the fire, praying or mending clothes or dreaming up new ideas for the new year’s brandy. All was quiet.

In fact it was not until halfway through February that anything of note occurred-- though unfortunately it was not a cheerful event. After a week of particularly variant weather, Olivier was struck by a headache that lasted for days. By the end of the second, Porthos had worried so fiercely that he’d taken ill himself, and Aramis and d’Artagnan sequestered themselves in Olivier’s and Porthos’ rooms, respectively, to look after the two.

By the third day d’Artagnan was exhausted. Porthos’ fever had raged since the night before and neither of them had slept much; Porthos tossed fretfully on his mattress while d’Artagnan cooled him with wet cloths. When Porthos did doze, nightmares jarred him violently. He’d sobbed himself awake on more than one occasion, lines between the past and present blurring as he rasped out terrors of Olivier chained before a firing squad, Olivier kidnapped to Pinon, Olivier trapped inside his family mansion as it burned.

“He’s fine,” d’Artagnan repeated, in an endless echo of himself. But when he and Aramis met briefly in the hall it was clear that Olivier was not fine-- too sick to keep even froth down, and so frail with hunger that he could barely lift his head.

And so d’Artagnan returned to Porthos’ side and did what he could, which wasn’t much.

He wet another cloth and dabbed the sweat from Porthos’ forehead. Porthos squirmed weakly, head thrashing, legs twitching like demons tempting him to rise. “Stay. _Still_ ,” d’Artagnan grouched; at the admonition, Porthos did so, but for seconds only. Feeling miserable and utterly helpless, d’Artagnan smoothed the cloth over his forehead and hoped it would stay there, while he heaved himself down to the edge of the bed and rubbed Porthos’ restless legs.

Nothing seemed to help. Porthos’ head and ears ached, and his throat burned so badly that d’Artagnan had placed a wadded-up towel next to his pillow so he could spit rather than swallow his saliva. Food and drink were out of the question. Porthos had been able to swallow no more than three mouthfuls of egg before the pain got to be too much; even worse had been when his stomach turned and he brought it all back up.

D’Artagnan did not try again, though he knew how badly Porthos needed hydration. Instead he pulled him into his lap, uncaring of his leg, uncaring when saliva ran from Porthos’ lips onto his trousers, utterly and completely floored by the fact that he had no idea what to do. He had no idea what to do.

Men had died from such fevers. He’d seen it. He’d held their hands while they’d slipped away.

What he really needed to do was ride to the town, seek a physician-- but to do so would mean leaving Aramis with Olivier and Porthos both to tend to, and besides this he was really, _truly_ unsure of whether or not he could mount Nuage without assistance, even under circumstances as desperate as these--

For the first time, four did not seem enough.

Fear made his decision for him, leaving him paralyzed on the bed; Porthos himself was so undone by illness that he whimpered and wept if d’Artagnan so much as shifted, and so leaving for too long seemed nothing short of cruel. It was bad enough that there were chores that were simply nonnegotiable. The last time he’d dashed out to see that the horses had water and hay he’d found himself near tears as he returned as fast as he could, unable to stop himself from imagining that he’d find Porthos dead; Porthos, in fact, was no worse off for being left alone for a few minutes, except for the tears that he himself had not withheld.

But the fever only rose, and d’Artagnan knew that they could not last this way. He needed at least to consult Aramis-- this was a quicker errand than going to the barn, anyway-- so when Porthos fell into a deeper sleep for the time being, d’Artagnan slipped from the bed and into the hallway. Moving as quietly as he could, he went to Oliver’s room.

He cracked the door open and glimpsed a heartbreaking scene: Olivier, on his side, moaning weakly, and Aramis, kneeling before him, rosary in hand. The room smelled of sweat and vomit. There were no candles lit, although night was falling, and besides this the curtain had been pulled so completely that no sunlight could have entered in any case. Aramis’ pupils were pinpricks as he glanced up at d’Artagnan’s candle.

“Aramis?”

Aramis held a finger to his lips, shaking his head frantically. Olivier could not bear the sound, it seemed. D’Artagnan’s stomach tightened.

_Porthos_ , d’Artagnan mouthed. _He’s really sick._ The urge to cry had hardly diminished all day; now it swelled up in him again, and he held his breath to keep the tears at bay.

Aramis mouthed something back. D’Artagnan, to his horror, did not understand it, and shook his head mutely. Aramis tried again. But d’Artagnan was not able to follow the movements of his mouth, even though he exaggerated them, and after a moment Aramis pushed wearily to his feet and came into the hallway.

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan whispered at once, but Aramis waved this away impatiently.

“Tell me about Porthos.”

D’Artagnan bit his lip. “The fever’s awful,” he confessed, and watched a ripple of pure emotion wash over Aramis’ face before he schooled it again promptly. “He isn’t himself. He hardly knows what’s real and what isn’t, and when he manages to sleep he has horrible dreams, and--”

Aramis’ hand settled warmly on his shoulder. “What besides the fever?”

“His head and ears hurt. And his throat. It’s so bad he can barely swallow.”

“Does it sound as though he’s having trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Is he coughing?”

“No.”

“Vomiting?”

“Yes. Only after I tried to get him to eat, though.” Everything crashed down around d’Artagnan all at once, as though it had not done so already; why was Aramis asking him these questions? Why couldn’t Aramis go and see for himself? He had no concept of what to do at a time like this, no ability to heal a man as sick as Porthos--

“Stay with me, d’Artagnan,” Aramis whispered, firmly. “Is there a rash?”

“No.”

“Not _anywhere_ on his body?”

D’Artagnan had removed most of Porthos’ clothing a day ago, and had been cooling him with damp cloths ever since; he thought carefully about his friend’s skin, and repeated, decisively, “no.”

Aramis squeezed his shoulder. “That’s good. That’s a very good sign.”

“Should I go get a physician?”

Aramis seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Fevers hit Porthos hard. You know that. I think it’s best if we stay together.”

D’Artagnan nodded.

Aramis thought a moment more, then whispered, “draw a lukewarm bath. In a basin of hot water next to the tub, add feverfew and peppermint. Have him breathe in the steam. And brew him tea with yarrow and willow. As much as he can keep down. Do you understand?”

“I--” d’Artagnan pulled in a breath; slipped, for the first time in months, into his captain’s mode. “I don’t know which herb feverfew is.”

“White flowers, not clustered. Bushy leaves. Get me if you need help getting him in the water.”

He would; this was nearly certain. But by the time the water was ready-- a damn slow process in the dark, with a bad leg-- d’Artagnan could hear the sound of retching from Olivier’s room again; Aramis would not leave his son under such circumstances for the end of the world itself. D’Artagnan stood before Porthos’ bed, heart pounding in his chest.

Porthos, after his initial reaction to d’Artagnan’s absence and return, was in a sort of lull for the time being; d’Artagnan put a hand to his cheek and helped his friend meet his eyes. “Porthos,” he said, in his captain’s voice. “We need to bring your fever down. You need to get to the bath. It’s only across the sitting room. Listen: I’ll be helping you balance, but I can’t carry you, my friend. Do you understand?”

Porthos only blinked, but helped d’Artagnan to get his legs over the side of the bed. He sat, swaying with vertigo. D’Artagnan helped him to his feet, thinking in an oddly removed way of how Porthos had helped him keep his own balance in the snow on Christmas day; now neither of them was entirely surefooted, and with that same strange dispassion d’Artagnan realized that if Porthos fell he’d have no choice but to get Aramis to help him. His bad leg shook and ached beneath their combined weight. He’d neglected his meadowsweet tea since the beginning of Porthos’ illness, and had carried buckets of water two-by-two, so that he could not use a cane.

But they did not fall. Instead they made a slow, shuffling way out of Porthos’ room, across the sitting room, and in to the washroom; Porthos stood on his own long enough for d’Artagnan to remove his smallclothes, then braced himself against the wall to lower himself into the cool water.

And the bath helped. It actually helped. After the initial round of shivers Porthos relaxed properly for the first time in days, and fell into a deep, calm sleep; d’Artagnan, struck nearly dizzy with relief, perched on the chair he’d luckily thought to bring in and watched over Porthos as he finally rested.

When Porthos woke he was more himself than he’d been in days. His face was still flushed, and eyes glassy with fever, but he seemed alert, and able to sit on his own while d’Artagnan went into the kitchen to fetch the herbs Aramis had prescribed. He filled a basin with feverfew and peppermint, and placed it beside the tub. Porthos draped heavily over the edge and breathed in the steam while d’Artagnan made him tea with yarrow and willow. Getting down the first cup made Porthos wince and shudder. But the next two were easier, and when they were done Porthos’ stomach gave a ridiculous growl, causing him to smile a little for the first time in days. “Forgo’,” he rasped. “’m hun’ry.”

D’Artagnan burst out laughing. “You forgot you were hungry?”

“Mm-hm. C’ I have s’m applesauce?”

“Can you have some applesauce?” The laughter left d’Artagnan a little dizzy as it faded. “Yes, you can have some applesauce, my friend. Stay here. And stay sitting!”

“No’ goin’ nowhere,” Porthos mumbled. Speech clearly still caused pain in his swollen throat, but though the sounds of it were muddled, to hear him speak coherently was a lovely thing. “An’ ’m too tall t’drow’ i’ this damn tub, so don’ you fre’.”

D’Artagnan got shakily to his feet and was nearly at the door when Porthos called his name again, causing him to turn around again. “Would you like anything else while I’m there?”

“Yeah. ‘d li’ you to ge’ yourself your damn tea, ‘cause I c’ tell you ain’ ha’ any.”

D’Artagnan nodded mutely; his friendship with Porthos had been too long for the man’s compassion to surprise him any longer.

And yet, it sometimes did.

In the kitchen he opened a jar of applesauce then went to fetch a bowl-- then, in a moment of self-care that he was really rather proud of, he fetched two instead and split the applesauce between them. He then he crumbled some meadowsweet into a cup. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lit the fire in the kitchen, but there was still clean water boiling in the washroom; he’d finish the tea there.

They ate their applesauce, and d’Artagnan drank his tea. By this time Porthos’ fingertips were shriveled up like raisins, and the water was cold; d’Artagnan helped him out of the tub, sat him in the chair, and dried him gently. They went carefully back to bed, Porthos leaning less on d’Artagnan than he had last time. He was shivering a bit, but overall looked so vastly improved by this simple treatment that d’Artagnan wanted to cry with relief-- and also with guilt at not having gone to Aramis sooner.

Porthos crawled wearily into bed and lay down hard. D’Artagnan consented to pull the thinnest sheet over his body, hoping that the comfort of this was enough of a benefit to outweigh the risk of enflaming his fever again. He almost thought that Porthos was asleep.

But then, Porthos rolled onto his side and opened his eyes again, looking suddenly pained. “How’s Ollie?” he croaked.

D’Artagnan winced, then immediately fought to hide it. Even in the deepest throws of illness, Porthos had never stopped thinking about his beloved nephew-- how could d’Artagnan have thought he’d do so now?

The last thing he’d been aware of was Olivier beginning to vomit again. That had been hours ago, though-- Christ, that could have been half a day ago, for all the sense of time he had at that point. “I haven’t really seen them,” d’Artagnan replied. “When I went in there to ask Aramis what to do for you, Ollie was asleep and Aramis was praying over him.”

Porthos nodded. Whether he took this as a comfort or simply accepted it as a non-answer, d’Artagnan was not sure, but either way Porthos closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

His fever rose in his sleep, but not as badly as it had before. D’Artagnan took to cooling him with cloths again, and when he woke d’Artagnan added a few buckets of hot water to warm the water he’d never emptied, and brought Porthos in for another bath. Through it all he stayed coherent. This soothed d’Artagnan-- though it did not soothe him as deeply as the fever still disturbed him, not to mention Olivier’s now four-day headache. Victory could not be declared just yet. Still, hope returned as it often did: timidly, quietly, visible only out of the corner of one’s eye until, suddenly, it was there.

Sometime on the fifth day there was a quiet knock at the door. Aramis entered. His hair was tied back carelessly, his face pale as parchment; he looked as though he could weep at any moment, given only the slightest provocation.

Porthos tried to sit. D’Artagnan pushed him back down, as Aramis rubbed his eyes and valiantly tried to offer a smile.

“ _Mi amor._ You’re back with us.”

“So they say,” Porthos whispered-- but if he was trying to sound nonchalant the effect was ruined by the still-painful rasp in his voice. “Still cookin’ eggs on m’forehead, though. How’s Ollie?”

“The pain has ended.” The hoarseness in Aramis’ voice was nearly as pronounced as Porthos’. “He still hasn’t eaten anything, but we’ll try in a few hours.”

“I wanna see ‘im,” Porthos rasped. “I need t’see for meself--”

“ _Mi amor_.” Aramis’ heart was in his eyes. “Your fever-- if it spread to his body while he’s still so weak--”

Porthos’ face fell as the meaning dawned on him. “Oh,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry.” Aramis’ brow was knit so tightly that his eyes were nothing more than slits.

“‘sawright. I understand.”

“As soon as your fever breaks,” Aramis swore, pressing his hand to his heart; Porthos nodded silently, face set.

The stoicism evaporated as soon as the door closed. Alone with d’Artagnan Porthos curled up on his side, shivering with fever and sorrow; d’Artagnan pulled the blanket to his shoulders and rubbed his back, unable to see if he was actually in tears but fairly certain in any case.

Porthos drifted in and out of sleep for a while. Though he’d been sleeping better since beginning his baths and tea, now he was restless again; d’Artagnan hardly blamed Aramis for such a logical decision, but realized quickly that it was emotion and not illness causing it this time.

When at last he seemed to settle, d’Artagnan prepared another bath and more tea. Porthos walked to the tub without assistance and stayed awake throughout, though all he did was drink his tea and stare sullenly down at his feet. When he’d finished two cups, and some applesauce, d’Artagnan guided him to lie back in the water and washed his hair. Though it did not seem to fully soothe him, he did relax a little, and when it was time to return to his bedroom he lay down and slept again, more calmly than before.

He was awake again, and d’Artagnan was reading to him, when the door cracked open.

“Porthos,” Aramis murmured, and smiled weakly as he came to his friend’s side. In his hands was a small stack of papers.

Porthos’ eyes slipped shut as Aramis tested his forehead-- and so he did not see the frown that his friends exchanged. His fever still burned away. Although he was much improved, his body had been fevered for a worryingly long time now. Aramis pulled his hand away, and Porthos’ glassy eyes blinked open.

“Olivier’s feeling better the past few hours,” Aramis reported quietly, and Porthos let out a tremendous sigh. “He’s drawn you these to say hello. I’m going to go get him another cup of milk now. You’ll be well soon, and we’ll all be together again.”

Porthos nodded bravely, and took the papers. Aramis left, and d’Artagnan watched as Porthos flipped through the drawings-- lovely, thoughtful renderings of a rabbit, a plum blossom, a pair of muddy boots.

A tear snuck down Porthos’ cheek. D’Artagnan had been cooling Porthos’ face with a cloth when Aramis had come in; now he raised it again and blotted the tear discreetly. Porthos glanced up at him and huffed out a laugh.

“Sorry,” he rasped. “‘s the fever. Feels like I’ve been cryin’ for days.”

“You have been. But maybe you’re just a weepy old man.”

Porthos laughed again, brighter than he’d been in days, and did not deny it. “He’s really good,” he mused, touching a fingertip to the laces of the charcoal boots. “That ain’t pride talkin’, neither. I mean, he’s honestly talented, yeah?”

D’Artagnan had long known this. Olivier’s drawings looked as though their subjects had been lifted right from reality somehow, rendered in shades of grey but otherwise unchanged as they were affixed to the paper.

“Few months before you got here, we asked him if he wanted to think about apprenticin’ an artist. When he realized it meant leavin’ the distillery, he cried buckets. But he was only seven then. Think we might owe it to him t’ask again before he gets too old for it.”

“What would you and Aramis do then?”

Porthos shrugged. “This. An’ I hope with you too. I don’t wanna be anywhere else. But he’s got the right. He ain’t a prisoner here. But honestly-- much talent as he’s got, if Ollie wanted t’stay here an’ be a distiller like his papa, I couldn’t say it’d break my heart.”

And if he left, d’Artagnan knew, it would. Even thinking about it was casting a shadow over Porthos again, so d’Artagnan took the papers from him carefully and laid them on his bedside table. “Sleep,” he commanded.

“Lie with me?” Porthos countered, almost shyly. He turned over, giving d’Artagnan his back, and rather than answer d’Artagnan pressed up against him and wrapped an arm around his waist. Porthos loved to be held this way, and everyone knew it. It had seemed unwise at the peak of his fever but d’Artagnan could not bring himself to deny this comfort now.

“Y’re warm,” Porthos huffed.

“ _You’re_ warm, actually. Go to sleep.”

*

In the morning, d’Artagnan woke with his face pressed up against Porthos’ shoulderblade; his leg was complaining about staying still all night but besides that all seemed well. Porthos had not woken once, he realized. He raised himself up and reached over to test Porthos’ forehead; his fever had broken.

The huff that escaped then was nearly a sob. Carefully d’Artagnan edged himself off the bed, and went to tell Aramis the good news.

Aramis was not in Olivier’s room. For a moment d’Artagnan began to worry, until he forced himself to think logically and realize that it was a good sign as well that Aramis was willing to leave his son’s side. D’Artagnan went out to the kitchen, where Aramis was kneading bread dough.

“Morning. I think Porthos’ fever has broken,” d’Artagnan announced, and Aramis gave a noise of utter joy and exhaustion. They went together back to Porthos’ room. Aramis felt his brow, leaving a trace of dusty flour in his eyebrows, and nodded his agreement.

“He’s cool,” he agreed. Then he said a quiet prayer of thanks and made the sign of the cross over Porthos’ face, getting more flour on him, this time in his hair. D’Artagnan grinned.

The two of them ate a small breakfast, during which Aramis reported that Olivier was stronger too, and had eaten eggs and applesauce yesterday with no issues. “When they’re both awake we’ll let them see one another,” Aramis declared, smiling.

Between the two of them they finished the chores. More firewood had to be chopped and hauled in, making it an especially long morning, but relief buoyed them easily, until they hardly felt the effort of it at all.

When they were finished, they went together to Olivier’s room. D’Artagnan had to bite back a laugh at the sight of the boy; he was sitting up in bed with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning petulantly.

“Oh, _hijo m_ _ío_ ,” Aramis crooned, similarly amused, “¿ _est_ _ás aburrido_?”

Olivier nodded, still pouting.

“Well, go wash your face. I suppose we can let you out of bed a little today.”

Olivier brightened-- marginally-- at this, and went off to the washroom; in the hallway, he paused sadly at Porthos’ door before continuing on.

“Let’s check on Porthos,” Aramis whispered.

Feeling almost conspiratorial, they crept into Porthos’ room; he was sleeping still, albeit lightly, for he shifted when the door creaked shut. D’Artagnan perched beside him, and Aramis crouched down before him. “ _Buenos d_ _ías, mi amor_ ,” he murmured, brushing Porthos’ hair back. “Wake up for me, eh? I’ve missed you.” Porthos blinked awake, and Aramis grinned. “How have you got flour on you when you’ve been on your sickbed all week?”

“Wouldn’ know,” Porthos mumbled, rolling onto his back. “Hey, pup.”

“Morning, Porthos.”

“How’s Ol?”

“He’s well. He’s pouting. How are you?”

Porthos thought a moment, then sighed out, “better. Kinda hungry. Only been eatin’ applesauce.”

“I’m making bread.”

“An’ I’m sure that’s got _nothin’_ t’do with the flour on me.”

“Well,” Aramis said, standing up. “I think they’re ready, don’t you, d’Artagnan?”

“I think they’re a bit beyond at this point.” D’Artagnan got off the bed, sure he’d only be in the way for the moment, and wanting a good view in any case.

Aramis went to the door and cracked it open. “Olivier!” he shouted into the hallway. “Come and wish your uncle good morning!”

There was no response, but a moment later there was the jubilant pounding of little feet, and then Olivier burst into the room, with hands dripping wet and a smile so big it hardly seemed to fit on his face. “ _Uncle_!” he cried, never slowing. He all but threw himself onto the bed, scrambling up the mattress and into Porthos’ arms. “I was so worried!” he bawled. “So, so worried for you!”

“ _You_ were worried for _me_?” Porthos repeated, nuzzling his forehead against Olivier’s. “Ollie, _I_ was so worried for _you_! Not bein’ able t’see you-- nearly killed me!”

“Don’t say that! Don’t stay that-- tell me you’re all right.” Olivier was weeping now, and, as d’Artagnan could have predicted, Porthos was not far behind.

“I’m fine,” he choked out. “I’m great. Tell me you’re all right too.”

“I’m great,” Olivier burbled, and then they were hugging even tighter, Olivier crying quietly and Porthos laugh-sobbing so hard that his whole body quaked. D’Artagnan had to turn aside lest he be overcome himself.

Aramis, on the other hand, couldn’t take his eyes away; d’Artagnan went to him and pulled him in for a hug of their own, rubbing his back as Aramis pressed his face into d’Artagnan’s shirtfront. A moment later he realized that Aramis was crying too. Not wanting to call attention to it, he simply held him until it ended, then pressed a gentle kiss to his brow.

“They’re fine now, look,” he urged, as Aramis wiped his eyes. “Look.”

“I know. I’m looking.”

Both still fairly worn down, it wasn’t long before Porthos and Olivier were fast asleep, curled up beside one another and breathing easily. Olivier’s hand clutched Porthos’ shirtfront.

They passed the day this way, with Aramis and d’Artagnan looking in on them at regular intervals; sometimes they were napping, other times curled up face to face and talking in whispers and giggles. At supper they came to the table. For the first time in a week, the four of them ate together, smiling and chatting easily.

And though the days were not quite warm, winter seemed to end then.

*

For the next week or two, Aramis and d’Artagnan still tended the distillery mostly by themselves; Porthos was weak enough that just moving from room to room tired him out, and Olivier, now that he was able to tend to him, staunchly refused to leave his side. For hours he read to his uncle, drew pictures for him, told him funny stories. D’Artagnan was not sure if Olivier realized that his presence alone was enough to soothe Porthos, but it hardly mattered. The effect was the same. And when Olivier himself grew tired, he and Porthos curled up on a bench or in bed together and slept a while.

It was after a few days of this that Aramis flopped down beside d’Artagnan in the garden. He’d needed time to recover too, though of course he hadn’t taken it, and now days later still looked shaken and the slightest bit peaky.

“Last week wasn’t easy for any of us,” he huffed out, after a moment of silence. “And I realized I never asked you how you were doing.”

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan told him-- then, as expected, had to repeat it with a convincing smile. “No, I’m fine, Aramis, really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Look, I wasn’t fine last week. There were moments, you know, moments we both thought the worst. Fevers are hell. But Porthos pulled through and I’m honestly fine now. How are _you_?”

Aramis laughed weakly and hung his head, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m going to be more honest than I would have at thirty, all right?”

“All right.”

“I need a drink, and a hug.”

“Luckily, last time I checked, you _were_ a brandy maker,” d’Artagnan noted. Aramis grinned-- but let the expression bleed away as d’Artagnan shifted himself carefully to his side and pulled him once again into his arms. He fell limply against d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Aramis whispered, after he’d apparently been held long enough to feel up to it. “I’m sorry. I know they’re all right. I know they are.”

“You’re still allowed to be shaken up by it.”

Aramis pulled back, far enough for them to face each other but not quite far enough for d’Artagnan’s eyes to focus. “It’s been nearly a year since you came here, my friend, and you live here now just as much as rest of us. So I don’t want to thank you, because I know you don’t need to be thanked for it. But understand-- that I do thank God you were here. If this had happened last year-- d’Artagnan, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“You’d’ve managed,” d’Artagnan soothed, pulling him back to his chest, “but I’m glad you didn’t have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I almost published this as a separate fic, given that it is such a standalone "episode", and the last four chapters will all be a part of the story's main arc. I left it, though, because I wanted to show how much d'Art has come to be a part of the distillery. In any case, hope you enjoyed :) Thank you SO MUCH to all who read and comment on this. I'm a little sad to see it winding down but hopefully the last few chapters will do justice :)
> 
> Medical note: I know someone can't actually "worry themselves sick" but I guess Porthos has crappy timing/stress-weakened immune system, that type of thing. He has a wicked case of strep throat, in case anyone was wondering. As you may have experienced for yourself, this is absolutely miserable and can be quite serious/turn into scarlet fever if not treated with antibiotics-- which, of course, Porthos' case was not. (Scarlet fever is what Aramis is thinking of when he asks d'Art if Porthos has a rash.)
> 
> Spanish
> 
> _¿Estás aburrido?_ = Are you bored?  
>  _Buenos días, mi amor._ = Good morning, my love.


	13. Chapter 13

It wasn’t long before things were back to normal. D’Artagnan woke on one still rather blustery morning to the sight of Olivier standing in the darkness, quiet and small and cheery as a creature out of legend.

“Ol?” d’Artagnan grunted; the cock had not even crowed yet.

“Sorry if I woke you, _gran frair_ ,” he whispered. “Only-- _bon aniversari_!”

“Is it my birthday?” d’Artagnan yawned.

“That’s what Papá and Uncle said!”

“So I get to do whatever I like, eh?”

“I suppose,” Olivier replied-- then squawked loudly as d’Artagnan plucked him from the ground and pulled him into bed beside him.

“Then I’m going back to sleep,” d’Artagnan declared, earning him a bop to the nose.

“You _can’t_ go back to sleep, because Uncle is _already_ making cakes with jam, and if you go back to sleep they won’t be _warm_ when you eat them!”

“Hm. I suppose that does pose a problem.” Still d’Artagnan did not rise-- until Olivier scrambled off the bed and pulled away the blankets, at which point d’Artagnan gave an almighty groan and sat up.

In the kitchen was indeed the smell of cakes frying; fresh butter and peach jam were set out on the table, as was a small pile of gifts. Aramis was plating the cakes as they finished cooking. Porthos, about to pour another ladle of batter, stepped away when he saw d’Artagnan enter.

“Hey-hey, thirty-two!” he called. D’Artagnan could feel himself blushing as he was enveloped in a cozy hug. “Many happy returns,” Porthos murmured. Feeling somehow entitled-- he was the man of the hour, after all-- d’Artagnan contented himself to nuzzle his face against his friend’s shoulder and not lift his head for a long while. In fact it was not until Aramis announced the readiness of breakfast that they pulled apart.

Being fed and cuddled by turns indeed seemed to be the theme of the day, and d’Artagnan-- who had turned thirty-one in a hospital bed, pouring over deployment maps and trying in vain to at least have a decent cry-- saw absolutely no problem with this. After breakfast he opened his presents. Olivier read him a poem he’d written in accurate, if slightly-halting Gascon, then sat with him on the bench for a while. Porthos wandered in and out from the kitchen, bringing scraps of apple and lumps of cookie dough for him to eat. Aramis eventually usurped Olivier’s position on the bench so that he could pray the rosary over d’Artagnan; d’Artagnan fidgeted a little, but, in truth, still loved it.

Porthos, Olivier, and d’Artagnan took the horses out while Aramis minded supper. They went as far as the village, where to d’Artagnan’s utter surprise the innkeeper was holding two letters for him, one from Treville and one from Gustave and his family. Gustave’s letter was a warm message wishing him a wonderful birthday and promising to see him soon. Treville’s was much shorter and more direct, but nevertheless there was a fondness to it; it was the first communication he’d gotten from the minister since resigning the previous summer, and it brought tears to d’Artagnan’s eyes. Porthos laughed, and kissed his cheek.

“Always were more than a soldier to him,” he intoned, gently. “We all were. He ain’t forgotten that.”

Still, to know that even outside the distillery he had well-wishers was nearly more than d’Artagnan’s heart could bear. He wobbled a little as they left the inn. Getting back on the horses was a perfect excuse to press up against Porthos’ chest and be hugged warmly as he sorted through the tender emotions.

At the distillery supper was nearly ready. It was a lovely meal, one into which Aramis had clearly invested thought, time, and _livre_. Before they ate, though, Aramis insisted on pouring them each some of his best brandy. After, when they were sitting around the table chatting contently, he brought the bottle out again.

D’Artagnan had hardly drunk at all during his captaincy. He’d wanted to drink on plenty of occasions-- honestly, he’d wanted to get blindingly, world-erasingly smashed-- but giving himself up willingly to incoherence was simply irresponsible. His was not a guard to be let down. Now, without fully understanding why-- perhaps because he simply could-- d’Artagnan let himself get pretty damn drunk, and before the night was over he found himself curled up in Aramis’ lap on one of the benches, spinny-headed and giggling like a fool.

“My d’Artagnan,” Aramis sighed at one point, touching a hand to d’Artagnan’s cheek. “I do hope you’ve had a good birthday.”

“The best,” he whispered, and then all of a sudden being in Aramis’ lap was not enough, and he needed, quite desperately, to be hugged. He pushed himself up clumsily and Aramis obliged.

D’Artagnan didn’t quite expect the sudden wave of tears that swelled up and soaked into Aramis’ collar; Aramis, though, was not perturbed, but instead huffed out a laugh and roughed up d’Artagnan’s hair. D’Artagnan sniffled noisily. He clung tight to Aramis, struck dizzy by the combination of brandy and of sheer, unalloyed happiness, the kind he’d known for almost a year now but which he probably never would become accustomed to.

“All right?” Porthos prompted, from his seat before the fire.

Nodding furiously, d’Artagnan opened his mouth to speak but only released a burbling sob.

“He’s all right,” Aramis declared. “Just a little-- drippy at the moment, eh?”

Then Porthos was beside them, and his hand touched warmly to d’Artagnan’s back. “Maybe bed now, pup?” he suggested, and d’Artagnan nodded again, only finding the strength to pull away from Aramis because Porthos’ arms were there instead.

“You’ve left your cane in the kitchen,” he scolded, as he pulled d’Artagnan to his feet.

D’Artagnan didn’t care, happy to brace against Porthos in its place. With an arm around his back Porthos led him down the hall to his bedroom, lowered him to the bed, and gently slipped his boots off.

When this was done, d’Artagnan lay back. He curled up on his side and reached greedily out for Porthos, who laughed and crouched down beside him. “You’re gonna feel this in the mornin’,” he warned. “Drinkin’ in your thirties just ain’t the same.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth, probably to deliver a superbly witty retort about how he’d been in his thirties for two years already-- and instead bleated, “I love you.”

Porthos, if surprised, barely faltered. “I love you too, pup. I hope you know that. But I guess sometimes you needa hear it, eh?”

D’Artagnan nodded weakly. Porthos wiped the tears from d’Artagnan’s face, then tipped forwards and carefully pressed a kiss to his brow. A tiny moan escaped then.

“Awright, awright. Du Vallon don’t make ‘em beg,” Porthos teased. He stood, then rounded the bed and lay down at the other side. D’Artagnan promptly rolled atop him. “Jus’ do your best not to throw up on me when the hangover hits, eh?”

“Mm.”

In the morning, when the hangover did hit, d’Artagnan managed not to throw up at all, though it was an unsure thing for the first half hour. Porthos stayed with him still, rubbing warmth into his trembling hands. And d’Artagnan waited for the embarrassment to come next-- the shame, the wounded pride-- but it did not. He was safe here. He’d learned the lesson a thousand times by now and yet it still seemed like a revelation.

He was safe.

*

Olivier’s birthday was not too long after d’Artagnan’s. This was, of course, the first year that Olivier knew it not to be his original birthday, but though d’Artagnan waited for him to mention this, he did not. In fact he hadn’t mentioned being Athos for a while now.

Olivier spent most of the day exploring the use of a set of colored pastels Porthos had bought for him; accustomed as he was to drawing only in charcoal, he did not know how to tempter his use of color, and sketched in lurid, delightfully unnatural shades. By supper, though, he’d settled on a compromise. He began to mix charcoal drawings with a single, carefully chosen pastel, resulting in a grey plum tree with indigo plums, a grey Gahús with sea green eyes, a grey orchard with a grey Aramis standing in it, wearing his dusty red shirt.

For supper they had rabbit, at Olivier’s request. Porthos tried, and failed spectacularly, to bake a large cookie in the shape of a _9_ , which tasted good despite its misshapenness. After supper Olivier curled up in his favorite blanket. He produced his gift from his father-- a new, beautifully crafted rosary-- and began to pray, mouth moving silently.

“Is your father after you to pray more?” D’Artagnan teased, when he was finished. It was a widely acknowledged, if unspoken fact, that Aramis did not think the other three prayed enough.

“Oh! No. I-- asked for this. _I_ think I should pray more.”

Olivier was blushing. D’Artagnan chuckled, still never knowing what the boy would be shy about; instead of pressing the topic, he plucked him from the bench, blanket and all, and resettled with him in his lap.

“This still all right?” he prompted, half-jokingly, as he cuddled Olivier to his chest.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, you know. You’re nine now.”

“Nine,” Olivier repeated quietly, as though this had somehow slipped his mind; then he flopped against d’Artagnan and nuzzled into his neck. “This is still very all right,” he mumbled. His little hand, captured between d’Artagnan’s belly and his own, still held the rosary, and fingered its round beads thoughtfully.

*

The days were getting warmer, and longer. Porthos had fully recovered from his fever the month before, and set out once or twice a week on short, all-day or overnight deliveries, bringing the second orders that many customers had placed and wiping their stockhouse quite clean.

D’Artagnan joined him for a few-- but not many, because planting season had begun. He spent hours each day preparing his garden, finding in it not only the comfort he’d come to expect but also a genuine enjoyment. The soil was rich, would take nearly any crop he pleased. He spent hours debating, interviewing the others on their personal preferences, then passed an afternoon sitting atop the eager earth before finally coming to a decision: strawberries, beans, sunflowers, and pumpkins (of course). Plenty to keep him busy.

Not that there was a lack of things to do; if winter had meant lazy days relaxing before the fire, spring meant movement, bustle, so much to do that each day seemed nearly overflowing. Besides the garden, d’Artagnan spent long hours in the horse pen. Although all had ended well with Porthos’ illness, he did not like the thought of being unable to ride into town without assistance if the need arose, and so set about building a set of steps for himself to mount Nuage unaided.

Wherever he was, though, Olivier tended to follow. At nine he was a bit more reticent than he had been at eight, but simultaneously more demanding of affection as well. Once his chores were done he liked to work on his lessons beside d’Artagnan. He trailed him to the garden, or the horse pen, sprawling beside him in the grass or the dirt to carefully work through his latest text.

It was in the pen one day that it happened.

Olivier was petting Miel absently, watching d’Artagnan nailing together the stairs, when in a moment of contentment he put his head down and sighed. “Good boy, Roger,” he breathed-- then froze.

D’Artagnan could see his eyes, sliding to the edges of his lashes to try to guess at d’Artagnan’s own reaction; could see the slump that came upon his shoulders suddenly as he realized that d’Artagnan had heard.

D’Artagnan pushed to his feet, calmly. “Olivier,” he asked, “where did you hear the name Roger?”

Olivier ran his hand down Miel’s flank, and said nothing.

D’Artagnan’s head was spinning. “You didn’t hear it, did you? You remembered?”

A nod.

“What else have you remembered?” He asked.

Still Olivier was silent.

“Oh. You’ve remembered a lot, huh? Like the pocket knife?”

Olivier’s voice was tiny and fragile. “It’s like-- for just a moment, my eyes get blurry and I feel kind of sick. But it only lasts a moment, and when it’s done, I know something else. I think that’s what the headaches have been all along. I think they’ve been memories trying to come out, and now that they can come out it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“But you had a terrible headache just last month,” d’Artagnan reminded him gently. 

Olivier colored. “I might have-- tried to hold it back that time. Because I didn’t want to remember what was coming. I didn’t know what it was but I knew it wasn’t a happy memory.”

Possibilities swirled in d’Artagnan’s stomach and pushed up like bile to the back of his throat. “What did you remember?”

Olivier lowered his head. “I remembered killing somebody.”

“Killing-- who?”

Olivier shrugged miserably. “Just some man,” he replied, and even as his expression grew sadder, d’Artagnan was flooded with possibly-inappropriate relief. Not Milady, then. 

“I don’t think he was another soldier,” the boy continued. “At least he wasn’t in uniform. Maybe he was a bandit. I don’t know. But it made me think-- I’ve probably killed a lot of people, haven’t I?”

D’Artagnan retrieved his cane from where it rested against the stairs, dug its tip firmly into the ground, and closed his eyes for a moment. His heart was pounding so hard he thought he might choke on it. Still he forced himself breathe in slowly, once, twice, steadying himself for the sake of his little brother. He opened his eyes, locked onto Olivier’s own.

“Ol, you were a soldier,” d’Artagnan said, softly. “You did it to protect other people.”

“I’ve been praying for forgiveness,” Olivier murmured, pulling his rosary from his pocket. “I don’t know if it’s working.” Tears welled up in his eyes then, and d’Artagnan stepped forward and pulled him close to his chest. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

“So you carried this all alone?”

“It was a little lonely,” Olivier admitted, glancing upwards with a watery smile. Then he pressed his face back against d’Artagnan’s belly. His shoulders hitched gently but he made no sound; d’Artagnan rubbed his back, stroking slowly up and down between the narrow blades. 

“You don’t have to be scared,” d’Artagnan soothed. “I’m with you now.”

“I’m not scared,” Olivier mumbled, turning his head to the side. “Only kind of sad. Kind of really sad. Sometimes with a memory, I think I’m remembering a feeling too. And Athos-- I-- I was an unhappy man, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan admitted. “You were.”

Olivier did not speak for a while, processing this; in the silence d’Artagnan wished desperately to take it back, but he did not. Olivier wanted the truth-- even if it hurt. And, for all his strength and kindness, for all his moments of good humor, the truth was that Athos had not been a happy man.

“I am happy,” Olivier said at last. He did not pull away from d’Artagnan, still leaned with his weight shared halfway between them. “I feel sad sometimes, you know, like when one of you is sad I feel sad, or when you’re having a bad leg day, d’Artagnan, I feel sad. When Soleil died I thought I might never feel happy again. But I did. I think happy is what I am most often. Why wasn’t I happy before? Do you know?”

And even if d’Artagnan had felt right answering then, even if he’d had a voice to answer with-- where would he start? It wasn’t only Milady. It wasn’t only Thomas. It was a short and lonely childhood, defined by duty and obedience, during which his worth had been measured only by his bloodline and his skill with a sword. During which he had barely known his parents. During which he had most definitely not been allowed to sketch for hours on end or keep a small herd of cats or even experience something as simple as his father kissing him before bidding him goodnight.

“You had-- a lonely sort of life,” d’Artagnan replied, feeling helpless. “Before you joined the musketeers. I don’t think you ever had much company. But, you know, now you’ve got me and your papa and uncle. And when you tell them--”

“No!” Olivier pulled away, dashing the tears from his face. “Please don’t tell them. I’m not-- ready yet.”

D’Artagnan bit back a sigh. “I didn’t mean I was going to tell them now, Ol. But they do need to know. This isn’t something to keep from them.”

“And I won’t,” Olivier replied immediately, “only I’m not ready today, d’Artagnan. I’m not ready right now.” He wiped his eyes again, but his expression was resolute. “Say you won’t tell them before I do.”

Now d’Artagnan let the sigh come freely. “I won’t tell them, Ol. You will when you’re ready.”

A little while later, work finished, d’Artagnan went to lie down a while before supper. Porthos and Aramis asked after him, but he assured them he was fine. He wasn’t fine, in fact; his head had yet to stop spinning and his stomach felt queasy and over-sensitive. But he could not tell them so without saying why. And Olivier had been perfectly clear; he wasn’t ready for his father or uncle to know that he was remembering his former life.

An hour or two later there came a knock at the door. D’Artagnan pushed himself out of bed and went to open it; Olivier was there, clutching a stack of papers, and he came fully inside the room before speaking.

“Can I-- show you something?” he asked, and d’Artagnan nodded. “You said-- um. I think it’s going to upset you a little, but you said not to carry it alone. Right?”

“Right,” d’Artagnan agreed at once, then put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What do you want to show me?”

Olivier handed d’Artagnan the papers, then looked away. He went over to d’Artagnan’s bed and lay down with his face in the pillow.

D’Artagnan flipped through the drawings one by one, realizing at once just what they were: sketches of his life as Athos, memories recaptured and put to paper. There was a pistol, a leather glove, the Louvre gardens, the garrison training yard. Some sketches had splashes of color but most were only in charcoal, and must have been done before his birthday, weeks ago-- at least.

The last two were different, not neutral slices of life but tangibly painful images. One was of a man, lying dead on the ground; he and the world around him were charcoal, but his blood was a bold, bright crimson.

As he flipped to the last page, d’Artagnan’s eyes swelled with tears. It was not like Olivier’s typical drawings, which were accurate reflections of life or of memory; this was a fanciful thing, the back of Olivier’s head as he stared into a looking glass. Staring out from that glass was Athos. His expression was weary, haggard; his eyes drooped with the weight of all they’d seen. His hair was colored brown, and Olivier’s a sunny blonde.

D’Artagnan laid the drawings carefully on his bureau, then went to the bed and curled up around Olivier. His explanation that morning had been far from sufficient. Now it seemed time to speak on it more, however much it hurt.

“Ollie,” he began, and stroked his hand down the boy’s hitching back, “I want to tell you about Athos, all right? I want to tell you about the man you used to be. Because I think that up until now it’s mostly been facts, and you’ve been left on your own to decide what kind of man you were. And the answer you’ve come up with is that you were an unhappy one. And that’s not wrong.

“But I don’t think you realize what a compassionate man and a strong man you were when you were Athos. I don’t think you realize that you were the kind of person who’d sacrifice anything for a friend or for somebody who needed protection. After I lost my father, you _were_ my father. And my big brother, and my leader, all in one. And if it weren’t for you and Aramis and Porthos I don’t know what would have become of me.

“You weren’t a happy man, no. I don’t-- I don’t want to force you to remember anything, Ol, but I think it’s enough to say that you didn’t come from a happy family. You didn’t hate being a soldier, that wasn’t it. That isn’t where the sadness came from. You lived to defend those who needed defending. And even in your lowest moments you were warm and brave and funny and--

“I’m not sure you let yourself believe how much we all loved you. When I was twenty-three I didn’t understand that, but I do now. You didn’t think you were worth it. But you were. We did. We loved you, just as we love you now, and the captain and Constance loved you, and I guess it’s a hard thing, knowing you used to be somebody else, and I guess it’s a hard thing when it seems like that somebody else wasn’t happy being themselves. But being Athos-- that’s an honor. As much of an honor as it is to be Olivier. You’ve been loved all along, Ol. As strange as all of this is, you should be proud of who you were.”

*

For a few days d’Artagnan wasn’t sure his little speech had had any effect; then, one morning in the horse pen, Olivier came to d’Artagnan’s side and beckoned him close. “Do you remember,” he whispered, “the time that Uncle Porthos lost a bet and had to walk through the garrison naked?”

D’Artagnan burst out laughing, rubbing Nuage in apology when she startled. “I do! Oh God. Poor Ollie, all the memories you could’ve dredged up and you get one of Porthos’ hairy arse.”

But Olivier did not seem to mind this memory at all. Over the next few days he related similar snippets, mostly from times that d’Artagnan could remember but some from the years when it had just been the three of them. Most were as lighthearted as the first. He recounted Aramis’ and Porthos’ bawdy tavern songs, d’Artagnan finding a snake in his bedroll, his own thirtieth birthday; spoke of watching the solar eclipse with Treville, which worried d’Artagnan, but the memory seemed to extend no further.

Some memories were heavier burdens. Olivier wept, head on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, when he remembered the death of his mother. “I told Tommy not to cry,” he sobbed. “How could I do that?” Tears came too when he recalled the injury Porthos sustained while escorting Bonnaire; though he did not seem to remember that this had happened near Pinon, he remembered his own hesitation to pause, and wept out apologies for this into d’Artagnan’s shirtfront.

Nothing else made him cry, at least not in front of d’Artagnan. But he remembered as well d’Artagnan’s capture by Vadim, de Foix’s death, and Emilie’s withdrawal-- which brought to mind a keener understanding of his own tendencies with alcohol as well.

But in all of this, blessedly, he still did not seem to recall the execution of Milady.

D’Artagnan would think, later, how short-sighted it was to fear only this; her execution, of course, had not been the first time that Athos and Milady had broken one another.

*

By rights he should not have woken that night. Olivier’s door was two down from his own, and the boy would not have walked by d’Artagnan’s on his ventures outside. Nevertheless d’Artagnan did wake. It was the middle of the night and, feeling unaccountably fretful, d’Artagnan pulled on his boots, seized his cane, and went out into the yard behind the house.

There, in the moonlight, Olivier stood. He was staring blankly, dressed only in nightclothes; d’Artagnan rushed to him, pulled him into his arms. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. Olivier was shivering. “What’s wrong, Ollie?”

The words were toneless. “He’s dead. He’s dead.”

D’Artagnan pulled back, keeping his hands clapped to the boy’s shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s dead. He’s dead.”

“Nobody’s dead, Ol--”

“There’s blood everywhere,” Olivier stated. His voice was small and smooth and flat, as though speaking from somewhere outside of himself. “Oh my God, oh my God Anne, what have you-- what have you--”

“ _Olivier_!” d’Artagnan shouted.

It was as though a gear had been turned. Olivier’s eyes flashed wide open, and he gasped, sounding like himself again; with no more warning than this, he bent over and threw up onto the grass between their feet.

“Hey,” d’Artagnan soothed. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I’m here, Ollie.” Olivier nodded, looking as though he might try to speak; instead he pressed a hand to his belly and threw up again.

D’Artagnan bent down beside him and rubbed at his back. “Don’t be afraid, _pichon frair_. I’m with you. Are you finished getting sick? Good. All right, look at me.” Olivier did so, and stood silently as d’Artagnan used a sleeve to wipe his mouth and nose. “Ready?” And when Olivier nodded, d’Artagnan scooped him up and carried him carefully back to the house.

They went straight to Olivier’s room, and d’Artagnan laid him on the bed. To his dismay, Olivier immediately rolled to the edge and vomited over the side into the basin he kept there. D’Artagnan winced and brushed his bangs back.

“It’s all right, Ollie. I’m gonna get your father, all right? I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“I know,” Olivier rasped, and spat. “I’ll be all right.”

Stroking his forehead one last time, d’Artagnan rushed into the small hallway that connected the bedrooms. His instinct was to shout, but he held back. Instead, after only a second’s deliberation, he cracked open Aramis’ door and leaned inside. “Aramis!” he whispered.

Aramis jolted awake. In that instant the soldier still in him was in command, and he was out of bed and on his feet before his eyes had fully opened. “Olivier?”

“He’s vomiting. I’m not sure--”

Aramis pushed past d’Artagnan and together they raced back to Olivier’s room.

The boy was curled up on his side. Something struck d’Artagnan as odd, though, and it took him a moment to figure out that it was Olivier’s eyes: they were still open.

“Hey, hey, _hijo m_ _ío_ ,” Aramis murmured, settling at his side. “ _Que ha pasado un tiempo_ , ¿ _si_?”

Olivier blinked. “ _La cabeza no hace_ _daño._ ”

Aramis frowned. “¿ _No_?”

“ _No, s_ _ólo_ _el estómago. Vomité_ _. Pero_ _me siento_ _un poco mejor ahora_.”

“ _Pues,_ _tal vez es sólo_ _una enfermedad_.”

“ _Tal vez. Pero Papá,_ _sucedió_ _algo_ \--”

“What’s goin’ on?” Porthos pushed into the room.

Aramis glanced up at him. “Olivier’s sick.”

“Sick?”

“He’s throwing up but he doesn’t have a headache.”

“No, Papá, listen.” Olivier was pushing himself upright. “I-- I know that this is going to upset you. And I’m sorry. But I need to tell you all of what happened. I remembered something from being Athos.”

“What?”

“I remembered something. Something terrible, and so bad I-- I don’t want to talk about it.”

Aramis and Porthos were staring at him openly. Feeling strangely protective, d’Artagnan rounded the bed to the side that Aramis wasn’t taking up, climbed in, and coaxed Olivier into his lap. The boy leaned back against him as he spoke, and d’Artagnan pulled the blanket over him.

“I think I got stuck inside the memory somehow. I don’t remember going out-of-doors, but I did. D’Artagnan found me. I think hearing his voice woke me up from it. I realized that I wasn’t in bed. Then all of a sudden I felt terrible, like from a headache, and I started to throw up. D’Artagnan carried me inside. But the headache never happened and I feel better and better as the dream is fading.”

At the look on Aramis’ and Porthos’ faces, d’Artagnan bundled Olivier even closer. The heartache, the confusion he saw there, stabbed into his own belly like a knife, and he wished for one wild moment that Olivier would take it all back, would let the burden be carried by the two of them, just the two of them. Aramis was frowning vacantly. Porthos’ mouth was slightly open, just enough that his breathing became audible.

“What did you remember, Ollie?” Aramis prompted finally.

A shiver passed over Olivier’s body, and his fingertips clutched the blanket a little tighter. “ _Pap_ _á_ , _puedo_ \-- ¿ _puedo decirse en la ma_ _ñana_?”

Aramis pursed his lips, but nodded. “ _Claro. Claro, hijo m_ _ío, en la ma_ _ñana_ ,” he murmured, then reached blindly back for Porthos’ hand. “He’s going to tell us in the morn--”

“I know,” Porthos snapped, and Aramis instantly apologized, but any tension between them was utterly belied by the fact that they were gripping each other’s hands like babes lost in a wood. They stood just a moment longer this way, before Porthos let go. Visibly needing something useful to do, he took the soiled basin from beside Olivier’s bed and carried it carefully from the room.

Aramis perched himself at Olivier’s side. D’Artagnan loosened his grip so that Olivier could wriggle free if he cared to; he did, crawling over to his father and resting his head on his shoulder.

Aramis ran a hand through his son’s hair. “Do you need something to help you sleep, _querido_?” he murmured, and when Olivier shook his head he sighed softly. “All right. All right. How’s your belly?”

“Better,” Olivier whispered. “I’m fine, Papá. Only tired now.”

Porthos returned then, and came over to the bed as well; Olivier lifted his face from Aramis’ shoulder and leaned towards his uncle, who dutifully kissed his forehead. Then Aramis and d’Artagnan did the same, and both stood up from the bed.

“Are you sure you don’t need any valerian?” Athos offered again, and Olivier smiled patiently.

“No, thanks. Really. I’m sorry I woke everyone. Please go back to bed.”

If Aramis was about to press further, this was stopped by Porthos’ hand on his arm; he nodded, and the three of them turned to go. D’Artagnan, the last out, was closing the door when he heard the timid voice.

“D’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan opened the door again, went back to Olivier’s side. “What is it, Ol?”

“It might be a little silly, but-- could you stay here tonight?”

A sudden lump lodged in d’Artagnan’s throat, and he whispered carefully around it. “That’s not silly, Ollie. Budge over, yeah?” He went around the other side of the bed and climbed in once more behind Olivier, tugging the blankets over them both. He thought to give the boy a little space. But instead Olivier snuggled up tightly against him, burying his face in d’Artagnan’s chest and his fingers in d’Artagnan’s shirt. D’Artagnan draped an arm around him.

“Try to sleep, _pichon frair_ ,” d’Artagnan murmured; Olivier nodded against him. Over the next few minutes he relaxed by degrees. Then, before all too long had passed, d’Artagnan heard the deep, even breathing that told him his little brother had fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gascon  
>  _gran frair_ = big brother  
>  _bon aniversari_ = happy birthday  
>  _pichon frair_ = little brother
> 
> Spanish  
>  _hijo mío_ = my son  
>  _Que ha pasado un tiempo, ¿si?_ = It’s been a while, yes?  
>  _La cabeza no hace daño._ = My head doesn’t hurt.  
>  _¿No?_ = No?  
>  _No, sólo el estómago. Vomité. Pero me siento un poco mejor ahora._ = No, only my stomach. I threw up. But I feel a little better now.  
>  _Pues, tal vez es sólo una enfermedad._ = Well, maybe it’s only an illness.  
>  _Tal vez. Pero Papá, sucedió algo--_ = Maybe. But Papa, something happened--  
>  _Papá, puedo-- ¿puedo decirse en la mañana?_ = Papa, can I-- can I tell you in the morning?  
>  _Claro. Claro, hijo mío, en la mañana._ = Of course. Of course, my son, in the morning.  
>  _querido_ = dear


	14. Chapter 14

When he woke Olivier was sitting beside him, staring down at him with a miserable expression on his face. “You’ve left your cane outside,” he mumbled when he saw that d’Artagnan was awake. “You couldn’t use it and carry me at the same time, so you left it outside, and now your leg’s going to hurt today.”

D’Artagnan fully expected his reply to be a patient one, and so was disappointed in himself when instead he grumped out, “I _can_ walk without it, Olivier.” Then he put his head in his hands. He had no reason to be cross-- except he had every reason, and although he’d held himself together last night, now that he remembered what had happened he felt hopeless and more than a little sick.

“I want to be alone for a little while before I tell Papá and Uncle about what I saw. Can you tell them I’m still sleeping, please?”

Apparently neither he nor Olivier was in the mood to be patient with the other. D’Artagnan nodded and took his leave, trying hard not to limp as he walked across the room, leg indeed unhappy from what it had been put through the previous night.

The pinkness of dawn was dimmed by thick clouds. In the scanty light d’Artagnan hunted for his cane, then tried kicked some dirt atop the vomit he noted beside it. He went to the barn and did Olivier’s chores. Then, feeling less and less sorry for himself but still in need of a little solitude, he went to get the strawberry seedlings he’d been nursing in the distillery proper. A cloudy yet windless day was just what he’d been waiting for to transplant them. In his garden he lowered himself carefully to the ground and went to work, soothed by the richness of the dark soil around his fingertips.

He was calm when he returned to the main house. This calmness, blessedly, remained as he opened the door and found the others at the kitchen table, as though waiting for him.

Ollie glances up shyly, caught his eye. He strode to the boy and wrapped him in an enormous bear hug, wordlessly offering support for him to draw on over the next few minutes, which would not be easy. Then he let go, and went over to his own seat. For just a moment he’d considered standing at Olivier’s side instead, but he didn’t. He needed support-- but there was no reason, here, that he needed protection.

“All right, _hijo m_ _ío_ ,” Aramis said quietly. “Are you ready to tell us now?”

Olivier drew in a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and nodded.

“You remembered something from being Athos,” Porthos prompted gently, and Olivier pulled a face.

“I-- um. I’ve actually remembered quite a lot from being Athos, Uncle Porthos.”

“Last night, you mean?”

“No. For months now.”

Olivier paused for a moment while his father and uncle visibly processed this, then began to explain, thoughtfully. “I feel a little sick, out of nowhere, and then all of a sudden I know something else. I think everything’s been inside me all along. I think holding it back, even though I didn’t mean to, was what’s always made my head hurt. Now that I can let the memories come back, I’ve remembered a lot.”

“Like what?” Porthos’ voice was gravelly.

“Plenty of little things, and a couple of big things too. I remember Roger. I remember Captain Treville. I remember birthdays and holidays. I remember the three of you-- you were so much younger then.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes were mostly on Olivier, but flicked away now and again to gauge the other’s reactions; he did so again now. It was then that he realized that Aramis was staring right at him.

“You knew,” he whispered, when their eyes met. D’Artagnan looked away, and Aramis repeated, a little more loudly this time, “you knew about this, d’Artagnan, and you didn’t _tell us_?”

“Don’t be mad at d’Artagnan,” Olivier said, in a voice that was suddenly clear and strong. “I asked him not to tell you. I had the right to do that.”

The tension eased from Aramis’, and he regarded d’Artagnan with apology in his eyes. D’Artagnan shrugged and smiled weakly.

“D’Artagnan helped me feel better if I remembered something bad,” Olivier continued. “And a few months ago I did remember something bad. I remembered killing somebody. I know that we were all musketeers, but that doesn’t mean I felt good about it.”

“Who did you remember killing?”

Olivier shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think I did know. He wasn’t anybody to me, but he was a person. It was hard for me to remember that I killed him. It was the worst thing I remembered-- until last night.”

“What did you remember last night, _cheri_?” Porthos prompted.

Olivier’s eyes closed, just for a moment, then opened again.

“I had a brother named Thomas-- and he died. He was murdered. Did you know that?”

Solemnly, they all nodded.

Olivier did not cry, but was suddenly shaking head to toe. “I remembered finding him. I remembered seeing him lying on the floor with blood on his shirt, and-- I remembered who killed him.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Porthos breathed out, seemingly before he could stop himself; Aramis had gone pale.

“The woman who killed him was my wife. I’ve never remembered her before, which I think is a little strange. Her name was Anne. She had green eyes. She stabbed Tommy, and when I found them there was still blood on her hands.”

Aramis’ own hand trembled as he pressed it to his lips. “¿ _Te acordás algo más, hijo mío_?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Papá.”

“Olivier, you haven’t done anything wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong; everything is all right.”

But even as Aramis spoke, d’Artagnan could sense his friend’s composure crumbling. Aramis did not break down easily, and when it was coming it felt like a storm about to hit.

“Papá?” Olivier squeaked, as Aramis stood, and turned away.

“It’s all right, _cheri_ ,” Porthos soothed; he came around, crouched down between them, and reached out to touch Aramis’ hand and Olivier’s shoulder. “Why don’t you an’ d’Artagnan go get some fresh air? I’ll cheer your papa up.”

Olivier looked up at d’Artagnan quizzically, and d’Artagnan nodded his agreement. With a vague comment about swinging, he shepherded the boy out of the house. If Aramis needed a moment, if he could not allow himself to shed his tears in front of his son, d’Artagnan understood.

Olivier did not. He stood, staring back at the house with his arms lifted out just a little, as though he might run back to his father at any moment.

D’Artagnan wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “It’s all right, _pichon frair._ Your papá just needs your uncle for a little while. He’ll be fine.”

“But Papá hardly _ever_ cries,” Olivier fretted, his eyes big and fearful as he looked up at d’Artagnan. “I don’t want him to feel like he’s alone.”

“Porthos is with him,” d’Artagnan soothed. “Olivier, sometimes grown-ups don’t want everyone to see when they’re upset. I know you want to go to him, but _he_ wants to be brave for you. That’s what _he_ wants. Do you understand?”

Olivier shook his head petulantly, and in that moment he was all nine-year-old.

D’Artagnan sighed. “Do you want to see the new strawberries I planted?”

“No.”

“ _E volets practicar lo gascon ende un moment_?”

Pulling away, Olivier shook his head again. “I’m going to go visit the cats. You can come if you like.”

“All right.”

In the barn, Olivier curled up against a haystack and was instantly ambushed by Mirga and Duveteux, rubbing against his legs and meowing noisily. A few more joined soon thereafter. D’Artagnan settled against the opposite wall and kept watch as Olivier petted and cuddled his cats, his worried frown easing, though not completely.

A while later Aramis came tentatively into the barn, Porthos at his heels. He crossed over to Olivier and crouched down beside him. “I’m sorry I was upset, Ollie. You know I wasn’t upset at you, right?”

“I know.”

“Can I pick you up?”

“Mm-hm,” Olivier hummed, and Aramis swung him up from the ground and into his arms. Absently d’Artagnan noted how big the boy was getting.

Aramis did a funny little rock as he held his son, as though wanting to cradle him like a baby again; Olivier gave a little smile and put his head down on his father’s shoulder.

“Nothing we four have done has ever been easy,” Aramis sighed, still bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “But now you know Athos’ darkest moment, and we know that you know, and we’ve all survived it.”

Uneasiness stirred in d’Artagnan’s stomach. He glanced over at Porthos, trying to tell if the other man’s thoughts were following his own: surely what Olivier knew was only Athos’ second-darkest moment. But he pushed the thought aside.

“Will you let me pray over you, _hijo m_ _ío_?” Aramis whispered. Olivier nodded, and then Aramis smiled weakly at Porthos and d’Artagnan before spiriting the boy out of the barn.

Once they were gone Porthos flopped down beside him. They leaned up against one another and closed their eyes, breathing in the other’s comfort.

“Is Aramis all right?” d’Artagnan asked, after a while.

Porthos pressed his lips together. “He will be. He’s Aramis, you know. Hates to see anyone he cares about in pain. Ollie least of all. Speakin’ of-- how’s _he_?”

“He’s all right. He’s stronger than we give him credit for.”

“Then he must be pretty damn strong,” Porthos huffed, “‘cause I don’t sell him short.”

*

Every few months something seemed to happen that d’Artagnan was sure would sour life at the distillery. But thus far nothing had. If there was a limit to how much they could collectively take, it had not been reached yet, and by the time a few days had passed since Olivier’s confession all seemed well again. Perhaps Olivier himself was even a little better off than he had been. Now he spoke freely to all three of them about what he remembered, making them all laugh-- or weep-- with careful recollections, some of which they had not even remembered themselves.

Like the first time, after, that Porthos suggested they play cards. Olivier had fixed him with a scathingly suspicious frown, which had Porthos looking so affronted that Aramis and d’Artagnan laughed until they could not stand. Or as the sunflowers began to creep upwards. Olivier had patted one fondly and asked, “did you choose these because they’re Uncle’s favorite?”

D’Artagnan chuckled. “Don’t give me too much credit. I didn’t even know that.”

Olivier sniffed. “I’m _sure_ he told us all.”

On the other end of the emotional spectrum had been the moment in which Aramis hesitantly broached the subject of the dauphin. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, at one point. “I only needed to know if you remembered.”

Olivier hugged him tightly. “I remember,” he whispered. “And it’s all right. If you’re worried I’ll be upset about it or anything, I’m not.”

“All right,” Aramis rasped. Olivier kissed his head and held him a while longer, pretending not to notice when Aramis wiped his eyes after pulling away.

And Olivier himself seemed so much lighter. Lighter, though he had not previously seemed to be weighted down. He talked so much more now. Nothing that came into his mind had to be withheld, and d’Artagnan was relieved and delighted by just how often now Olivier would chatter on about anything and everything. Though he’d feared the influence of Athos’ sadness, Olivier in fact seemed happier than ever.

Wrapped up as he was in Olivier’s wellbeing, d’Artagnan hardly kept track of his own timeline. He was at the distillery now, and didn’t need to think about when he was not. But one morning in the middle of May, when he was standing at the window frowning about whether he should plant carrots or save that space for a second crop of beans, Olivier pounced on him and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“ _Bon jorn, gran frair_!”

“ _Bon jorn, pichon frair_. You’re in a good mood today.”

“Don’t you know what day it is?”

“Eh-- no, I don’t.”

“You’ve been here a year today!” Olivier exclaimed. “You didn’t remember?”

In truth, for all that he loved the distillery and his friends with every fiber of his being-- no, he had not remembered the exact date of his anniversary. From his seat at the table, Porthos chuckled, seeing this.

“‘sbeen a good year, I’d say,” he declared. “Some bumps an’ bruises, but what’s life without ‘em?”

“It’s been a wonderful year,” d’Artagnan breathed. Suddenly he felt a little weak, and sank into the chair next to Porthos.

Aramis came in, then, smelling like the orchard; seeing d’Artagnan he chuckled. “Who startled the pup?”

“It’s d’Artagnan’s first anniversary of living here!” Olivier announced. D’Artagnan nodded dizzily.

“One of the happiest days of my life,” Aramis declared, with no insincerity in his voice.

“I don’t thank you all enough,” d’Artagnan rasped, finding his own voice then. “Really. I don’t say enough how much it means to me.”

Porthos smiled, a little crookedly. “Pup-- you don’t need to. This is your home now as much as it’s ours.”

“But you’ve done so much for me!” d’Artagnan insisted. “And what have I done? Planted pumpkins?”

“Planted pumpkins and managed the orchard and been our friend and our brother.” Aramis bent down and kissed his forehead. “And you’ve looked after yourself. That’s something to be very proud of. You’re getting better, d’Artagnan. I hope you can feel that as much as we can see it.”

“I can,” d’Artagnan swore. “I really can.”

*

D’Artagnan’s second year at the distillery was much the same as the first had been, only with a lot less weeping and whining and a lot more feeling well and getting on with things. June, July, and August fled by just as they had the year before. The harvest was good, and d’Artagnan’s own garden grew beautifully, in gentle shades of brown and orange and red.

The cane was a permanent extension of his arm now, but he found he didn’t mind. It generally went unspoken of, save for a few casual mentions and the one time that Aramis put a hand on his shoulder and said quietly into his ear, “hold it on your strong side or your weak side will grow weaker.” Picking plums was a little trickier. But d’Artagnan, who had been in so much less pain since beginning to use it regularly, discovered he could still direct Honoré and Jean-Marc well enough to get it all done. And more than _well enough_ , he was actually kind of good at it. He’d always assumed that years of military leadership had made him too gruff and direct to be good at handling civilians; apparently this was not the case. Honoré and Jean-Marc warmed up to him much more than they had the year before.

Though Gustave could not leave his own distillery during the harvest, he paid his brother a late birthday visit after it ended. This time, and to Aramis’ great delight, their sister Sofia accompanied him. Within hours of meeting her d’Artagnan felt the strangest sensation of having known her for years now; it seemed that as a part of Aramis’ family now, the rest of Aramis’ family had simply become his own.

In October, d’Artagnan and Porthos set off on deliveries again. Though d’Artagnan was much calmer this time they continued the tradition of sharing rooms in hotels, and overall it was a productive and enjoyable few weeks. Particularly cheerful was their meeting with Luis, the Spanish buyer. He greeted d’Artagnan like an old friend and introduced him to his brother, then the four of them-- for Porthos chose that moment to display a much-improved command of Spanish-- chatted happily for a long while before even getting around to business matters.

He would not be ten until spring, but the tell-tale signs of an ending childhood were beginning to peek out in Olivier. He was gaining weight. Porthos, of course, could still lift him easily, but Aramis and d’Artagnan found it all at once a bit of a struggle. Moreover, he didn’t seem to expect it. Whereas a year ago he’d been a little boy, with the kind of little-boy-logic of _why shouldn’t I be carried everywhere_ , now he never asked for it, and seemed a little embarrassed when he let it happen.

His voice had not yet deepened, but was beginning to crack with laughable frequency. By fall the trousers he’d been wearing all summer revealed a visible span of ankle, which Olivier marveled at proudly. “Maybe I’ll be taller this time ‘round,” he mused, one night in November.

Porthos and d’Artagnan both laughed at this. Aramis didn’t. Olivier’s growth was weighing on him, d’Artagnan could tell; tonight he was frowning deeply as he sat at the table and let down the hems of Olivier’s trousers. He waited until Porthos and Olivier had gone to bed to speak on it.

“He’s young for it, isn’t he?” he mused. “He’s only nine. I didn’t start growing until I was fourteen. Gustave was at least fifteen. How old were you?”

“Younger than that. Maybe twelve.” D’Artagnan shrugged. “Everyone’s different.”

“But you weren’t nine.”

“No,” d’Artagnan admitted. “I wasn’t nine.”

“And his teeth-- do you remember me asking you about his teeth?”

D’Artagnan did, though he hadn’t thought much about it at the time. Indeed Olivier did seem young to be smiling with a full set of adult teeth; in fact to look at him now he looked closer to eleven or twelve than he did to nine and a half.

“What exactly is it you’re worried about?”

Aramis shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t want him growing up too fast, I suppose.”

“Olivier’s a happy little boy,” d’Artagnan soothed; reassuring Aramis of this had become an almost daily task this past year and a half. “Just because he gets a bit of hair on him doesn’t mean he’s going to up and take off for parts unknown. You’d need a whole powder barrel to get him out of this place. He loves the distillery.”

“He’s young. And it’s happening fast.” That was all Aramis would say.

By Christmas his fears had spread to d’Artagnan; Olivier was practically a young man now, and though he was no less thoughtful and cheerful and affectionate, it still was unsettling. D’Artagnan tried to talk himself out of worrying. It was natural, he insisted privately, to feel a bit of anxiety at watching a child stop being a child, just as there was in watching the trees shed their leaves for the winter. But this was more than that, and he knew it.

Olivier was simply growing too fast.

But despite this constant nag at the back of his mind, d’Artagnan was happier than ever; this winter was not easy but was not as hard as the last, and he himself was kept in bed by bad leg days only two or three times all season. Porthos lost his voice at one point, but did not feel very ill. Aramis spent a few days under the weather with an upset stomach, but with a constant supply of hugs and peppermint tea felt better in no time.

In January, Duveteux died. Olivier was devastated, as before, but d’Artagnan felt a strange measure of comfort as the boy still sought them out in his grief, still cried into their collars and let himself be held almost constantly for nearly a week.

As winter ended Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan came to a decision. Hearts in their throats, they asked Olivier if he’d like to try to become an artist’s apprentice somewhere; his vehement _no_ was a profound relief to all, bringing a healthy round of tears and a renewed fervor just in time for spring.

D’Artagnan turned thirty-three. He spent the day eating candy, getting hugged, and sewing a crop of peas in his ever-expanding garden. Porthos gave him a new book, which Aramis began to read when he wasn’t looking. Aramis himself, in addition to a real present, had given him a pin for his hair, now just as long as it had ever been in his twenties-- “just kidding,” he said, then pulled a face at Olivier to say that he was not just kidding. All was just as it should have been.

And then, a few days before Olivier’s tenth birthday, the boy emerged from his bedroom droopy-eyed and a little pale; Aramis sprang into action, feeding him a spoonful of herbs and insisting he return to bed. Olivier smiled patiently and went to read by the fire instead. He’d been healthy all winter-- no flus or head colds to speak of, headaches now relegated to memory-- and swore that he was just a little run down from the shifting in the weather.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he huffed, hiding another smile. He swatted at the rosary dangling from Aramis’ fingers. “Papá, you’ll worry yourself into an early grave, has anyone ever said?”

“Don’t tell me not to worry about my son,” Aramis scolded, tucking Olivier primly beneath one arm. “Now close your eyes and rest while I pray for you.”

Olivier did so-- but it was only a few minutes before he started sneaking peeks at his book beneath Aramis’ line of sight.

But despite his good humor he had no appetite for supper. And when d’Artagnan checked on him before going to bed himself he found Olivier restless, sweating in his sleep.

“I think I am getting sick,” he finally admitted, when the smell of breakfast the next morning left him visibly nauseated. By eight o’clock he had gone back to bed. Aramis went to lie with him and stayed there until just before noon, when he emerged with the unhappy news that Olivier, for the first time in just about a year, had one of his headaches.

“Ain’t how they’ve ever come on before,” Porthos fretted. “Do you think he’s gonna remember-- y’know. What happened to Milady?”

“Maybe not all of his headaches were memories,” d’Artagnan offered, trying to believe this himself. “Maybe it’s flu and it’s just set one off.”

For the next day the distillery seemed to have fallen back in time. Old patterns emerged easily-- Porthos and d’Artagnan scrambling to keep the necessities in check, dozing fitfully in the sitting room, waiting for the next time Aramis would call for linens or water.

The morning of Olivier’s birthday was grey. Rain fell as thickly, and though d’Artagnan had come to love such days, this time it only felt gloomy. Porthos was out tending the animals when Aramis appeared. He dropped down beside d’Artagnan, buried his head in his hands, and let out a tremulous sigh. “He’s sick for his birthday,” he mumbled. “My poor little boy.”

“I know it’s hard, Ar, but he’s been this sick before.”

“He’s ten,” Aramis sighed, instead of responding, as though this itself were an illness. “Ten years old.”

He was actually almost forty-seven, a voice at the back of d’Artagnan’s head supplied, but it hardly seemed the thing to say.

“And he’s the kindest, most thoughtful ten-year-old there’s ever been,” d’Artagnan remarked instead. “When I was his age I think I spent most of my time catching frogs and half-arsing my French lessons.”

“He’s always been old for his age,” Aramis put in, and d’Artagnan bit back a sigh. Sometimes there was just no cheering Aramis, especially where Olivier’s wellbeing was concerned.

And d’Artagnan had to admit, this illness was somewhat alarming. It was not as his headaches had ever been, and yet he had never been so sick with anything else. Rather than say anything else, d’Artagnan laid a hand on Aramis’ back.

There was the sound of stirring in Olivier’s room a few minutes later, and Aramis, without hesitation, reached over and took d’Artagnan’s hand. D’Artagnan squeezed his fingers tightly. They rose together and went into Olivier’s bedroom-- where Olivier was sitting, fumbling to pull socks onto his feet.

“What are you doing, Ollie?” Aramis prompted. His voice was calm but his hand had clenched tighter around d’Artagnan’s. It gripped tighter still as Olivier raised his head.

The boy was deathly pale, sweating tremendously; his eyes, when he looked at the two of them, could not seem to focus.

“Going,” he replied, in a short, breathy burst.

Aramis let go of d’Artagnan, then, and went to Olivier’s side. “You aren’t going anywhere,” he said, calmly, and began to guide his son back under the covers.

What happened next happened so quickly that d’Artagnan barely followed it. In half a second Olivier was off the bed, backing away from Aramis, and Aramis looked so stunned and upset that he did not rise up from his crouch. It took a moment for d’Artagnan to realize that Olivier had pushed Aramis out of the way.

“Olivier, you need to get back in bed,” Aramis ordered, finally standing.

“Can’t,” Olivier gasped. “Papá, let me go!”

D’Artagnan caught him gently by the shoulders, dismayed to feel how badly he was shaking. Then Olivier tore away from him, too.

“I need-- some fresh air-- _no_! It’s all right, Papá, please!” And then he was scrambling out of the room, banging open the door in his frantic attempts to flee.

Though ill, Olivier was still a little boy, and faster than they were. Aramis and d’Artagnan bolted after him, down the hallway and across the sitting room, out through the door of the washroom and into the yard. Before they could reach him he had crested the hill.

“What’s goin’ on?” Porthos called, from up by the barn. Aramis did not respond, but ran faster, outpacing d’Artagnan as the three of them now sprinted down the hill to the orchard.

“Olivier!” Aramis shouted. “Olivier! Where are you?”

In the pounding rain the trees of the orchard became a maze of dripping, leafy branches; d’Artagnan tore down one row, shouting for the boy, getting cold rainwater in his mouth. What on earth was the matter with him? Was he stuck inside the memory of hanging Milady-- certainly the only memory worse than Thomas’ death? Or was this a fever, easier to explain but no less difficult to cure?

“Olivier!” d’Artagnan screeched, soaked to the skin, bad leg trembling more with each step. The mud was slick beneath him. It was only a matter of time, he thought absently, before he fell, but he could hardly slow down now--

And then, to his left, Porthos’ voice. “Here! _Oh_ \-- here!”

D’Artagnan dove through the plum trees, hitting away branches that sent fresh icy showers down upon him. Two rows over he found Aramis, and one more over Porthos. But the person standing before Porthos was not Olivier.

It was Athos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you called this/hoped for it... and some of you hoped it would not happen! Two chapters left, though! The story is not over!
> 
> Also, yes, the time jump was 100% motivated by a selfish desire that I would have some room to play around in this universe if I wanted to. Hope it wasn't too jarring :)
> 
> Spanish  
>  _hijo mío_ = my son  
>  _¿Te acordás algo más, hijo mío?_ = Did you remember anything else, my son?
> 
> French  
>  _cheri_ = dear
> 
> Gascon  
>  _pichon frair_ = little brother  
>  _gran frair_ = big brother  
>  _E volets practicar lo gascon ende un moment?_ = And would you like to practice Gascon for a while?  
>  _Bon jorn!_ = Good morning!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw alcohol use/abuse

Athos was stark naked, gasping wildly. Rain slicked his hair down, dripped from his nose and chin.

As they arrived, Porthos was shucking off his cloak and wrapping it around Athos securely; clothed, at least, Athos fell against him, shaking, eyes wide.

 _He wants Porthos when he’s scared,_ d’Artagnan thought, distantly. At his side, Aramis was still as a statue.

D’Artagnan went to them; Athos had buried his face in Porthos’ shoulder and was fighting to catch his breath. D’Artagnan laid a hand on his heaving back. He met Porthos’ eyes; they were anything but blank-- _alive_ , in fact, with emotion-- but for the life of him d’Artagnan could understand nothing of what they contained.

After a moment, Athos pulled himself away. He blinked up at them, and for the first time d’Artagnan realized that did not look exactly as he had done before; he was clean-shaven, for one, and he’d aged, as though he’d lived those ten years properly, in this same body. There was grey at his temples, deeper lines around his eyes.

“How do you feel?” Porthos asked.

“D-dizzy,” Athos replied-- then flinched, as though surprised by his own voice. “Sick. I-- I think I’m--”

And then he folded over, and vomited onto the dirt.

 _He wants Aramis when he’s sick_ , d’Artagnan thought, and glanced over his shoulder. But Aramis had yet to move.

“It’s all right, _cheri_ ,” Porthos soothed, rubbing Athos’ back as he threw up a second time. “We’re not goin’ anywhere. Gonna keep you safe. I promise. You all finished? All right. Let’s get you in front of the fire, love.”

Athos let himself unfold but instead of moving simply stood there, one hand clutching at his belly and one in a death grip on Porthos’ shirt. “Uncle,” he whispered, “something’s wrong.”

“I know, _cheri_ ,” Porthos replied, calmly, wiping Athos’ mouth with his sleeve. “But listen: we’re with you. You’re scared, I know, but you’re not alone.”

Athos hung his head. He let go of Porthos and wrapped both arms around his middle. “Where’s my papá?” he bleated.

And at last Aramis returned to them. “ _Aqu_ _í estoy, hijo m_ _ío_ ,” he soothed, coming to Athos’ side; Athos let out another little whimper and Aramis wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “ _No te sientes_ _bien_ , ¿ _eh_?”

Athos shook his head, shivering harder when Aramis pressed a gentle hand to his belly. “¿ _Puedes caminar para m_ _í_?”

“Mm-hm,” Athos hummed.

Aramis smiled warmly and turned him around towards the main house. D’Artagnan went to his other side, and Porthos protected them all from behind. In slow, sloshing steps they made their way out of the orchard, up the hill, and into the kitchen. Porthos dashed off for some towels while Aramis stripped the sodden cloak from Athos’ body.

“Find him some clothes,” Aramis murmured. D’Artagnan stumbled through the sitting room to the hallway, going to Olivier’s door by instinct-- hand on the knob he stopped, then found he could not make himself move again.

Oh, God. Oh, shit.

He’d missed Athos more than he knew how to even comprehend but he hadn’t wanted-- he hadn’t wanted to sacrifice Olivier for it-- at least not for a long time now--

The smooth metal pressed against his fingers. He was gripping the doorknob now so hard that he was shaking and in one sudden rush, be it of grief or of physical weakness, his leg gave out beneath him and took him to his knees--

Athos was back.

Olivier was gone.

Athos was back.

He wanted to shout for joy but also, very profoundly, to put a hand to his face and bawl until the tears drained him dry.

Instead d’Artagnan called upon the military dispassion that he hadn’t adopted in ages now. Mastering the shivers he pushed himself to his feet, went into Aramis’ room, and fetched smallclothes, trousers, and a shirt; then crossing by Olivier’s room again, he ducked inside for his beloved blanket.

His friends were in the sitting room now, by the fire. Athos stared into the flames, one hand clutching tight to Aramis’ hand while Porthos toweled his hair dry.

Seeing d’Artagnan, Aramis leaned closer to the shivering man. “ _Hijo m_ _ío_ , we have clothes for you. You only have to stand long enough to get the trousers on. Do you think you can?”

Athos nodded weakly. Porthos got to his feet and helped Athos stand, then held him steady while d’Artagnan and Aramis coaxed his feet into the holes of first the smallclothes, then the trousers. Once this was done, Athos fell bonelessly against Porthos’ chest. Porthos lowered him gently to the ground, sat back long enough for them to get Athos’ shirt on, then pulled him back in and held him tightly. D’Artagnan wrapped the blanket around them both.

The night was long. Athos burned with fever but shivered with cold, huddling so near to the fire that d’Artagnan worried he’d hurt himself. Athos didn’t seem to care, only wanted to get warmer. His stomach had not calmed, either; every mouthful of food and water he got down came back up within minutes, until at last they stopped trying. And though he seemed aware of things he did not seem to know himself in the way that someone should.

Aramis had gathered every blanket and pillow in the house and constructed a sort of nest for the four of them to sleep in together. Now it was after midnight. Porthos had been the first to fall asleep, lying across the hearth with Athos held tight to his chest; Aramis, who hadn’t slept properly in days now, soon followed. In the orange glow of the fire d’Artagnan watched over them steadily. Athos too was still awake, but had not made a move to lift himself out of Porthos’ arms, nor to shimmy backwards from the fire that d’Artagnan had kept burning strong.

At last the silence grew to be too much. “How do you feel?” d’Artagnan murmured, ears nearly losing his own voice to the crackle of the flames.

Athos did not lift his head when he replied. “My belly hurts,” he whimpered, then stiffened. “I-- that is to say-- my stomach does not feel well.”

D’Artagnan tried not to react to the misplaced words, though Athos himself had clearly been startled by them, if not fully dismayed. “Do you feel like throwing up again?”

“I’m not sure. No, not right now. D’Artagnan,” he rasped. “Have I-- been ill?”

“No, Athos.” D’Artagnan pulled himself closer, and Athos struggled out of Porthos’ grasp then, and regarded him soberly. “You haven’t been ill. You haven’t been drinking, either. All that you remember, it did happen.”

“I’ve lived as a child.” He swallowed dryly. “Ten-- ten years. I’ve lived as a boy again.”

“Yes. How much do you remember?”

“All of it.”

“How much do you remember of your life before?”

“All of that as well.”

“Are you back with us, then? It seemed-- for a little while I seemed you didn’t know who you were.”

“I am Athos,” Athos replied, softly. “No longer of the king’s musketeers, I suppose. You are d’Artagnan. He is Porthos, and he is Aramis.”

What else was there to say, really?

“Do you think you’d like to try eating something again?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you lie back down and try to sleep?”

“I can’t,” Athos whispered.

At the despair in his voice d’Artagnan did not dare argue. “I’ll stay up with you, _frair_. All right? Do you want to come a little back from the fire?”

Athos nodded and crawled to d’Artagan’s side; they leaned back, shoulder-to-shoulder, against one of the benches.

In silence they watched the flames burn down to embers. Then, all at once, d’Artagnan blinked and found the fire completely dead; his head was on Athos’ shoulder.

“It’s all right,” Athos murmured, into the darkness. “Sleep, d’Artagnan. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

“No, ‘ll stay up w’you,” he slurred, forcing himself to sit. Athos shushed him quietly.

“I mean it. I’ll wake you if I need you. Sleep.”

*

When d’Artagnan woke, there was a moment-- just a moment-- in which the pain in his leg and the crick in his back too precedence over all else in his mind.

The moment did not last.

He was tucked up against a bench in the sitting room; Aramis and Porthos were both sprawled on the floor before the hearth. He got awkwardly to his feet and limped into the kitchen. His mind knew that he was looking for Athos but his heart just as urgently expected to find Olivier, and when he saw that the kitchen was empty, he went out of the house, both of those faces in his mind.

It was, of course, Athos that he found in the barn. The emotion that coursed through him was bliss and devastation and everything in between, and feeling shakier than he had in years now d’Artagnan let out a miserable huff. Athos looked up from where he was milking the cow.

“Did you sleep at all?” d’Artagnan sighed, scrubbing his hand over his own forehead.

“No. Where’s your cane?”

“I don’t know.”

Athos’ cheeks were pink with fever, his eyes glassy.

“Come back to the house,” d’Artagnan insisted. “I’ll do the chores. C’mon.”

Athos said nothing, but put his hands on his knees as if to rise from the milking stool. Overcome by a sudden shudder, he sank back down.

“Here,” d’Artagnan said, going to his side. He pressed his hands under Athos’ elbows, and between the two of them Athos stood-- then d’Artagnan’s leg gave, and a second later they were both on the floor.

Athos tucked up, pressed his face against d’Artagnan’s belly. He let out a short huff of laughter, and it occurred to d’Artagnan that even though Athos only let himself laugh in his most cut-apart moments, even though it was not a happy sound, he’d never heard Olivier laugh, not even an unhappy laugh, and now he never would-- not knowing what to do with the sudden rush of grief d’Artagnan pulled Athos against him, hiccupped weakly into his hair--

“Christ Almighty, if that weren’t the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen then I dunno what is.”

D’Artagnan lifted his face to the sound of Porthos’ voice; Athos did not.

“Up with you,” Porthos said firmly, coming to their side. He plucked d’Artagnan from the ground, held him until he’d steadied himself, then did he same for Athos.

“Get the milk,” Athos whispered, and d’Artagnan laughed dizzily, picked up the pail and then went with them back to the main house.

Aramis was awake now, waiting anxiously in the kitchen. He took Athos’ weight from Porthos and bore him gently to a chair, then brushed his bangs back tenderly. “The fever’s not broken,” he tutted. “You shouldn’t be outside.”

“I had chores,” Athos mumbled.

“Don’t fuss. Can you eat?” Athos’ eyes flicked wordlessly to the pail of milk that d’Artagnan had set down, and Aramis smiled. “All right. Just a minute.”

As he lit a fire to heat some milk over, Porthos pulled a chair up beside Athos and sat, guarding him silently. D’Artagnan went into the sitting room for his cane and Athos’ blanket. When he returned he sat at Athos’ other side and watched as Aramis spooned honey and cinnamon into a cup, then added a ladleful of milk and stirred.

Athos’ hands trembled as he reached out for the cup. Still he brought it accurately to his lips and drank deeply, getting the froth down in just a few minutes and keeping it down as they gathered themselves up and moved into the sitting room.

Aramis settled Athos on a bench and sat beside him. Porthos spread the blanket over their legs, but when Aramis wrapped an arm around Athos’ waist he did not sink into the embrace. Porthos and d’Artagnan took up the opposite bench.

One long moment of silence later, Porthos pulled in a deep breath and let it out in a gust, saying, “so what do we do now?”

“What do we ever do?” d’Artagnan replied. Suddenly it felt like he’d forgotten how to do anything more basic than blink. How did they normally spend their days?

“The strawberries are sending off runners,” Athos put in, causing all eyes to turn on him. “I noticed on my way to the barn. You should go and trim them before they root any tighter.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking.

“I think it’s to be forgiven if nobody wants to leave you today,” Aramis answered, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through Athos’ shaggy brown hair.

“Should we-- talk about it?” Porthos sounded almost timid.

“What’s there to say?” Athos huffed. “I was poisoned. I lived as a child for precisely a decade. Now that child is gone and I am myself again.”

“It wasn’t a poison,” Aramis whispered. “Those ten years were wonderful.”

“And now they’re over.”

“It’s good to see you,” d’Artagnan rasped, finding his voice at last. Athos regarded him oddly.

Silence descended again. After a few minutes of it, Porthos lurched to his feet without warning and disappeared into the hallway.

Another minute passed. D’Artagnan pushed shakily to his feet and went after Porthos, walking with deliberate calm to Porthos’ door and slipping inside.

Porthos was standing before his bureau. One hand was pressed to his mouth, stifling the noise of the tears that flowed down his cheeks in messy streams. D’Artagnan stepped closer.

Tucked in the middle drawer of Porthos’ bureau were Olivier’s birthday presents.

D’Artagnan wrapped an arm around Porthos’ shoulders. His voice was softer than a whisper as he held his lips to Porthos’ ear and lulled, “it’s all right, it’s all right, I’ve got you.”

Porthos gasped through his fingers, and nodded. D’Artagnan felt the ache in his own throat as Porthos fought not to make a sound. _I’m all right_ , he mouthed, taking his hand away, perhaps not trusting his voice to come out quietly enough.

D’Artagnan raised a thumb to his cheek to wipe away some of the tears. Rather than comfort Porthos this only made his eyes fill up again, and d’Artagnan brought their foreheads together.

“ _Shh_ ,” he soothed. “You’re a goddamn mess, Porthos. Buck up, or they’ll know for sure.”

“I missed Athos,” Porthos whispered, “so, so bad, pup, but-- I didn’t-- I didn’t want a _trade_ \--”

“They’re the same person,” d’Artagnan replied, firmly. “Athos was never gone. Olivier’s not gone now.” But even as the words passed between his lips he knew them to be only half the truth; Olivier and Athos were the same person only technically, and practically speaking d’Artagnan’s heart ached to know that he’d never hold his little brother in his lap again, never push him on the swing, never count his freckles while he napped before the fire. There was no such thing as having both of them in his life at the same time. And yet he’d never wanted anything so desperately in his life, and knew that Porthos and Aramis felt the same.

“Buck up,” he said again. “This will be harder on him than it will on any of us.”

Porthos nodded, hand back over his mouth again. They stood this way a while longer, until he’d calmed, then a few minutes more while the swelling in his eyes receded.

Still Athos saw it at once.

There was no anger on his features, not a trace-- just a profoundly desperate sadness. He pushed dizzily to his feet. “For what it’s worth,” he muttered, “I’d rather still be the child as well.”

“Athos!” d’Artagnan cried, stepping towards him. Aramis stood, steadying him with one hand on his waist and one on his elbow. But Athos wrenched away and headed for the door.

When he realized that Aramis was following him, he whirled back around with vicious speed, nearly tipping over in the process. “Tell me!” he demanded-- and here was the anger. “Tell me my fever’s too high to go outside! I’m not a boy anymore! I’ll make my own decisions!” And Aramis stumbled back, as though physically struck; nobody else tried to stop Athos as he stomped from the room.

There was a soft grunt and the sound of footsteps, and when d’Artagnan turned Porthos had gone back to his bedroom. A moment later, without looking at d’Artagnan, Aramis did the same.

Left alone d’Artagnan thought about going to his bedroom as well, but suddenly felt too tired and sick for such profound movement; instead he seized Olivier’s beloved blanket from the floor, wrapped it about his shoulders, and sank onto a bench.

The day wore on. Maybe he slept, maybe he didn’t; nothing seemed real until Porthos passed by sometime later, kissed him on the brow, and asked in a gravelly voice if he wanted anything to eat. He shook his head.

Porthos went into the kitchen and came back a while later, no food in sight but a cup of tea in each hand. D’Artagnan took the one he was offered. He lifted it tiredly to his lips, finding comfort in the familiar taste of meadowsweet.

“He’s out on the hill,” Porthos reported, quietly, after both cups were nearly empty. “I left him be, but he looks all right, considerin’.”

D’Artagnan patted Porthos’ back with his free hand. “Thanks,” he murmured, not sure exactly what he was thanking Porthos for-- everything, probably.

Porthos sighed, leaning into the touch. “Dunno how much company he wants, but I’ll just keep checkin’ on him, I guess.”

D’Artagnan finished his tea and pushed to his feet, seizing his cane and letting the blanket fall away. “I’ll see to the strawberries,” he replied. “Then I’ll be in the yard with him. It’s as good an excuse as any.”

“All right,” Porthos agreed. D’Artagnan hooked the handle of his cup onto his right thumb, leaving his left hand free to brush over Porthos’ curls.

“You gonna check on Aramis?”

“Yeah. In a minute.”

“All right.”

D’Artagnan left him then and took his cup out to the kitchen; then he went up to the barn and gathered his tools. He settled himself in the garden and looked up at Athos.

Athos sat, hunched in on himself, at the top of the hill, gazing out across the distillery. He did not acknowledge d’Artagnan. Nevertheless d’Artagnan grew to feel that Athos knew of his presence, and they spent an hour or two this way, d’Artagnan trimming back the overcrowding strawberry stems, Athos simply sitting, staring.

D’Artagnan glanced up now and again, to check on him. On one such occasion, he felt his heart drop away to see Athos no longer where he just had been. A quick scan, though, showed him on the path up to the barn. D’Artagnan wiped a hand over his face, forcing himself to catch his breath; a visit to the cats was always curative for his brother. He went back to gardening.

But when Athos finally returned to the hill, it seemed that he had not been to the barn after all; instead he had been to the distillery, for a few bottles were beside him in the grass.

D’Artagnan left his tools where they were, and went slowly up the hill.

“What are you doing?” he asked, forcing his voice to stay gentle.

Pale eyes blinked up at him dolefully. “What does it look like?”

D’Artagnan did not reply, only observed the scene: Athos, eyes dim and bloodshot, four bottles of brandy beside him. And yet they were not open. He was waiting, then, waiting for company, which had to be a beacon of hope in an otherwise pretty hopeless picture. D’Artagnan considered his options. It was beyond disheartening-- in fact it was devastating-- that after only a day of being Athos, Athos felt the need to drink again. As Olivier, with his proclivities in mind, they’d never allowed him more than watered wine. It also seemed a frightfully bad idea in general terms to drink straight brandy after ten years of near-sobriety, when the drinker had just spent the last four days too sick to keep down anything but a cup of milk.

And yet, it seemed, he had only two choices. He could sit and drink and at least know that Athos had company, or he could refuse, leave him alone, and very possibly not stop him from drinking anyway.

Plus, d’Artagnan could use a drink himself.

He collapsed down onto the grass besides Athos, undid the bottle he was offered, then took a swig. Athos did the same, promptly erupting into a coughing fit.

D’Artagnan reached over to pound him on the back, and once the coughing was done he kept his hand there, rubbing gently. Athos let him, which had to be a good sign.

In silence they watched the sun set sink down over the orchard; when Athos began to shiver, d’Artagnan wrapped his arm around his shoulders and again was permitted to keep it there. He kept careful pace with Athos. Still, with no more than a quarter of the bottle gone, he himself was feeling only muzzy, and Athos was already slumping into him, too drunk to stay upright.

Wordlessly d’Artagnan reached over for his bottle. But before he could take it, two pairs of footsteps came pounding up the hill behind them, sending a shock of panic through his system like he hadn’t felt since Paris.

“What the hell are you doing?” Aramis hissed. “D’Artagnan?”

“Not his fault,” Athos grunted, heaving himself up. “Sit. Drink.”

“You’ll make yourself sick. Porthos?” Aramis looked to his friend for support, but Porthos only offered a helpless shrug, sat, and took up a bottle. Eventually Aramis did the same.

Before long the four of them sat in a semi-circle, facing the orchard, the pink now fading to blue as the last of the sun’s rays pulled away from it. The brandy made everything easier to take. So did being together as four again, despite the circumstances, and d’Artagnan gave up the fight, letting exhaustion take over and lying against Porthos as Athos had been lying against him. Porthos’ chin was in his hair, and he could hear the swallow whenever his friend took a drink.

At d’Artagnan’s other side, Athos was sitting on his own but just barely; he’d started drinking again, and though d’Artagnan did not move his head to see how much he’d had so far, he’d wager it was too much.

Porthos thought so too. “Slow down, Athos,” he scolded, at one point. “You haven’t had a proper drink in ten years!”

“And before that I was a drunk,” Athos retorted, the words like a knife to d’Artagnan’s guts. But they did not wound nearly as badly as the words that followed--

“And now I remember why.”

Porthos stiffened beneath him. D’Artagnan sat up and looked over.

“What do you mean?” Aramis murmured. Athos shook his head. “Please, _hijo m_ _ío_ , tell me what’s making you so sad!”

Athos shook his head again, fiercely.

“Olivier, please--”

Something unlocked in him at the sound of this name. “How else could I cope with it?” he snarled, nostrils flaring.

“Cope with--”

“I killed her!” he howled then, pulling away from Aramis. “I killed Anne!”

Aramis’ eyes flew wide, but his voice remained steady. “You didn’t. Surely if you remember everything you remember that she escaped?”

“That doesn’t matter! I had her put to death! That she escaped does not relieve me of that! How-- how could you have loved me? How could you have loved me knowing that?”

“I’ve known you for seventeen years,” Aramis soothed. “And I’ve known about Anne for most of that time. And I have loved you every moment. I love you now.”

Athos snorted harshly, as though this simple fact were the most unlikely statement to have ever been uttered. D’Artagnan had sat up by now. The three of them regarded Athos, who himself was staring at the ground, with not half an inkling as to what to do next.

Finally Aramis spoke, leaning towards him. “Give me the brandy, _hijo m_ _ío_ , there we are. Time for bed, I think--”

It was at that moment that Athos let up a massive, gurgling belch.

“Athos?” Aramis prompted, frowning.

Athos blinked dumbly for a moment-- then crawled forward and vomited a huge gush of liquid onto the ground. Aramis went to his side. Athos coughed a little, hiccupped, then retched again, and another wave spilled out; Aramis rubbed his back, murmuring softly.

“Oh Christ,” Porthos whispered. “Oh my God.”

Athos continued to heave, bringing up scant mouthfuls now; Aramis remained crouched at his side, soothing him as one would a sick young boy, not a drunken adult man.

And Athos was _sobbing_. Openly, messily, _hysterically_ \-- making no attempt to hold in or even tamp down on the grief. Aramis wiped his tears with the pad of a thumb. Unable to stay back, d’Artagnan dragged himself to Athos’ side-- but Athos shrank away from him, cowering into Aramis.

“You said I was a good man!” he wept, gaping helplessly at d’Artagnan. “You said Athos-- was a good man!”

“You were,” d’Artagnan bleated, shocked nearly beyond coherence. “You are.”

Athos whimpered and pressed his hands to his belly, tears and spit dripping onto the soiled grass.

“Athos, you’re drunk,” Aramis whispered. “You’re remembering too much too fast and you’ve made yourself sick and I know, I know you feel like you can’t handle any of this right now. I know that, _hijo m_ _ío_. But please listen to me. Everything’s going to be all right. Finish throwing up, and then you’re going to go to sleep. And then in the morning you’re going to feel a lot better.”

Athos shook his head, flinched, and threw up again. But Aramis did not budge from his side, and at long last, once Athos’ nausea had faded into exhaustion, he succeeded in pulling the trembling man against him. D’Artagnan had sat back, and watched from a short span away. Porthos, who had never come forward, sat behind them all, head in his hands.

Even when he’d stopped getting sick, Athos had not stopped crying. Eventually, though, d’Artagnan realized that this too had ended, and Athos now lay silently against Aramis’ chest, twitching as he fought to keep himself from slipping into a drunken slumber.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, after a long while.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Aramis soothed at once, brushing the hair back from his forehead and craning down to press a kiss there. “You didn’t mean to--”

“No. Not sorry for this. I-- was going to go with her,” Athos whispered.

“Go where? With whom?”

“With Anne. To England. The night before the wine. I was going to stay for d’Artagnan’s wedding. And then I was going to leave. In that moment I wasn’t sure what I would do, but now I know what I would have done. I’m sorry. I would have split us apart. You would have been at Douai, and I would have been in England.” He looked back at d’Artagnan and Porthos. “We both would have left you. I’m sorry.”

“We didn’t,” Aramis reminded him, though the thought of this was a visible weight settling on his shoulders.

“We did. We still left d’Artagnan.”

“That was my choice,” d’Artagnan said. “And we’re together now.”

Athos gave a quiet whimper and Aramis frowned in disapproval. “Don’t you dare start up again. You’re exhausted and you’re drunk to high heaven, and all you’re going to do now is sleep. Let’s go. Up with you. Come on.”

Aramis managed to heft Athos to his feet without assistance, and, arms around each other’s waists, they teetered back towards the main house. D’Artagnan made to follow them. It was then that he realized Porthos had never lifted his head, not even when Athos had addressed him.

D’Artagnan pulled himself to Porthos’ side. It was not until he wrapped an arm around him that he felt the magnitude of Porthos’ trembling.

“Hey,” d’Artagnan soothed, “it’s all right. I’ve got you, Porthos. Do you want to get back to the house?”

Porthos raised his head at last; in the dim light, tears shone bleakly on his face. “Christ,” he croaked. “Jesus Christ, he was so much happier as Olivier.” He sniffed massively, wiped his cheeks. “Oh my God, why’d we let ‘im drink?”

D’Artagnan rubbed Porthos’ back as fresh tears ruined the work he’d done to dry his face. “That had to come out of him at some point, Porthos, drunk or not. The wine only helped it along.”

Porthos shook his head, throat working spasmodically; d’Artagnan pulled him close, and Porthos let himself be drawn into a tight embrace. In d’Artagnan’s arms, he cried a short while longer.

When he finally stopped it was with a sudden startle, as though realizing all at once that the four of them had split apart. He sat back, scrubbed his face again, then got them both to their feet. D’Artagnan’s leg ached deeply, and standing reminded him that he himself was not completely sober; the two of them leaned heavily on one another, and on d’Artagnan’s cane, as they made their ungraceful way back to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left :( I will be incredibly sad when this fic has ended. Got the idea for it on a hike last July-- just had this random idea out of nowhere of an older d'Art going to visit his friends and meeting this little blonde, freckly boy, and it all went from there. It's been my constant companion ever since, so 6 or so months. Definitely will have more to post within this 'verse, but nothing immediately forthcoming. For now I suppose I'll just sit here feeling bad for Aramis... he's trying _so_ hard to keep it together but that will not last....
> 
> Spanish  
>  _hijo mío_ = my son  
>  _Aquí estoy, hijo mío._ Here I am, my son.  
>  _No te sientes bien, ¿eh?_ = You don't feel too well, eh?  
>  _¿Puedes caminar para mí?_ = Can you walk for me?
> 
> French  
>  _cheri_ = dear
> 
> Gascon  
>  _frair_ = brother


	16. Chapter 16

In the sitting room, Aramis was holding Athos before the fire. Porthos fetched them a blanket, then pulled off his boots and curled up at their side; d’Artagnan’s leg simply would not allow another round of sitting on the floor just yet. He pulled up a chair and settled in beside them. Together the four of them faced down the night, waited to see what it would bring.

But it brought no real change. Between the brandy and the fever, Athos, though visibly exhausted, barely slept; he spent the night moaning, squirming witlessly in Aramis’ arms. In the morning he was sicker than ever. Not ten minutes after breakfast he vomited up every bite of the egg he’d begrudgingly eaten, and d’Artagnan, by this point, was beside himself with worry. In the end they knew very little about the phenomenon behind all this. There had been no discussion of investigation on that strange night ten years ago, and now d’Artagnan realized that there was really no reason to think Athos wouldn’t die of this. 

Now they were all back in the sitting room. Athos lay on a bench, legs pulled up, arms around his belly; Aramis knelt at his side, blotting the sweat from his forehead, wiping his mouth when he spat up bile over the edge of the bench into the basin Porthos had put there. 

D’Artagnan had pulled a chair up by his head. He stroked through Athos’ damp, knotted hair, glancing now and then at Porthos, who sat in a chair by his legs. The same fear he felt was mirrored in Porthos’ eyes. D’Artagnan, for his part, bit it back, kept it down, knowing how easily the dread of the worst case scenario could overwhelm him. 

But slowly the nausea seemed to fade, perhaps just a hangover after all. Athos calmed, let his limbs relax; once it seemed that he would not vomit again, Aramis helped him roll onto his back. Then he produced his rosary. With his head resting beside Athos’ chest, he prayed in quiet Spanish while Porthos held tight to Athos’ hand and d’Artagnan began to actively work the knots from his hair.

After an hour or two of this, Athos felt ready to sit. They propped him up in the corner of the bench, blanket stuffed behind his back, and were pleased nearly to tears when he kept down a peach and a few cups of froth and water. It was late afternoon by now. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure where the day had gone and wondered absently if it had happened at all-- to be fair, of course, nothing had seemed real since that moment in the orchard, just two days ago.

But it was real. Athos really was with them.

It had been many months since he’d properly missed Athos-- both because of Olivier and because his hurts were mostly healed, this among them. But now Athos was within arm’s reach, it all crashed back down. He’d spent so long missing him that the missing returned naturally-- missing his smirk and his smile and his soft, pensive words, and the way he himself felt so worthwhile, such a vital part of the world, when Athos’ blue eyes had borne down upon him.

Of course he’d felt the same under Olivier’s gaze.

He missed Olivier now; thought almost without pause about how much he wanted to scoop him up, ignoring the protests, hold him in his lap and kiss his hair. (Olivier’s nose would wrinkle!) He’d taken him out to the barn, pet the cats with, push him on the swing and never ever stop because he was tired or achy but go for as long as Olivier’s heart desired.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t right, that he should get only one of them in his life at a time-- that he had to choose between his big brother and his little-- but when it came down to it, it had not even _been_ his choice--

D’Artagnan gazed through blurring eyes at Athos, still reclining on the bench. He traced the scar up his lip, remembering the first day he’d told Olivier about that scar; he strained to see the freckles that were not gone, but had thoroughly faded.

 _Athos was never gone_ , he told himself, echoing the reassurance he’d given Porthos, _and Olivier’s not gone now. Athos was never gone and Olivier’s not gone now._

_Athos was never gone and Olivier’s not gone now._

And all at once a little of him began to believe this.

Athos, however, seemed to see only that d’Artagnan was staring at him, crying silently; he looked away, and pushed himself stiffly to his feet.

“I’m going to bed,” he rasped. “Goodnight.”

“No!” d’Artagnan yelped, realizing his error. He dashed the tears away hurriedly. “No, Athos, you don’t understand--”

“I understand that I’m tired,” Athos replied. “And that I’m going to bed.” He made his way into the hallway, and the three of them scrambled after him. He was standing before the second door, hand on the knob, and did not turn when they came to stand beside him.

“This is-- the child’s room,” he mumbled.

“It’s your room,” Porthos said. “Don’t you feel that?”

“Yes. But do you?” He glanced around at all three of them, but could meet nobody’s gaze.

“Of course we do,” Aramis replied, at the same time as d’Artagnan blurted out, “yes, shit, Athos, we do!”

But Athos’ fingers remained motionless on the knob-- until Aramis’ own fingers guided them gently away.

“Come on, _hijo m_ _ío_ , you can sleep in my room tonight.”

Athos stared at him for a moment. “I’m not your son.”

“As though we never shared beds before!”

“No, it isn’t that. Don’t-- call me your son. I’m not. I’m not your son.”

Athos seemed the truly realize the words only as he spoke them himself; tears welled up in his eyes.

Aramis took him gently by the shoulders. “Perhaps not. But you are still my Olivier.”

“No. I am Athos.”

“Would you stop being difficult? You’re my-- my-- you’re _mine_ ,” Aramis decided finally. “You’re mine. You don’t need to be anything else. I mean, theirs too of course. But whoever you are to us, whatever name you go by, you are _ours_.”

“You are, _cheri_ ,” Porthos soothed. “An’ you’re never not gonna be.”

“Different names for the same person, remember?” d’Artagnan put in. “Different names mean different parts you can’t see at the same time-- but they don’t mean different people.”

Slow, fat tears started rolling down Athos’ cheeks. They were not as before-- not as messy as a child’s or a drunk’s-- but still somehow more tender than d’Artagnan would have imagined. Athos did not wipe them. They fell not in waves but in one steady stream, pushing out all the grief, cleaning it all away.

“We love you just as much as we love Olivier,” Aramis murmured, “and with just the same piece of our hearts. We care about you, as much as we ever have. And we’ll look after you. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

Athos nodded, lips blanching and trembling as he pressed them together. Slowly he tipped forward. Aramis held him tightly as Athos hid his face and wept soft hitching sobs into Aramis’ shoulder. D’Artagnan and Porthos stepped to them. D’Artagnan wrapped his arms around Athos’ waist from behind, and Porthos laid a hand on Athos’ arm and his head next to Athos’ on Aramis’ shoulder. Athos gave a quiet keen, and slumped a little further.

“It’s all right,” Aramis soothed, when at last Athos seemed to have cried himself out and pulled back, rubbing his eyes. “You’re so tired, _querido_ , come and sleep now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“All right,” Athos murmured-- and rather than turn toward Aramis’ door he reached out and opened his own.

“Here?” Aramis prompted, and Athos nodded. “May I stay with you anyway?”

Athos nodded again, and Aramis put a hand on his waist and guided him over to the bed. Porthos pulled the blankets back. Athos climbed in and Aramis followed, wrapping his arms around him; Porthos spread the blankets over them both while d’Artagnan pulled the curtains closed against the redness of the setting sun.

Athos sniffled, pressed his face against Aramis’ chest; Aramis kissed his forehead. “You feel a little cooler, I think,” he whispered. “You’ll be better soon. There’s a world on the other side of this, you know, and in that world we’re all still together.”

*

D’Artagnan woke in the morning to a familiar weight around him. After tucking in Aramis and Athos, he and Porthos had seen no good reason not to give into the need for comfort and curl up together in d’Artagnan’s room. Glad as he’d been of it then, he was even gladder now. Everything seemed a little easier to manage with Porthos’ arm around his waist, Porthos’ sleepy brown eyes blinking awake, already locked onto his.

“All right?” d’Artagnan whispered.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah. Kind of starving though.”

“Oh, thank God. Me too. Didn’t wanna say.”

“Check on them, then breakfast?”

“Mm.”

But Aramis and Athos were both sound asleep when they cracked the door open; rather than wake them, d’Artagnan and Porthos went into the kitchen, lit the fire, and gobbled down a handful of strawberries each.

“Plums in a month or two,” d’Artagnan mused, wiping juice from his mouth.

“’m ready.”

They turned at the sound of footsteps to see Aramis shuffling into the room, pale and shaky but smiling. “Fever’s broken,” he reported, and was promptly ambushed by a hug from either side. “ _Gah_ , your hands are sticky, Porthos,” he whined, but even as he said this he sank deeply into their arms and stayed there for a long moment.

Porthos kissed his hair. “World on the other side of this. You’re the one who said it. Gonna be a nice one, too. Jus’ your son’s gonna be older than you!”

It was a kind-hearted jest-- and yet Aramis’ knees buckled.

“ _Oh_ ,” Porthos grunted, as d’Artagnan glared over at him; together they lowered Aramis into a chair. Porthos crouched beside him and brushed his hair back from his face.

“Sorry, Ar,” he murmured. “Not funny yet. I gotcha.” Aramis shook his head, and began to list so far to one side that Porthos captured his face between both hands to hold him steady. “Sorry,” he whispered again, looking miserable.

“No, ‘m sorry,” Aramis mumbled. “Isn’t just me. ’s different for all’f us. I know.”

They stayed this way, silently, for a few minutes; Porthos’ big hands cradling Aramis’ chin, holding him upright, both of them breathing slowly. At last Porthos pressed his forehead to Aramis’. “You’re allowed to miss Ollie, love,” he whispered. “He was your little boy.”

Aramis closed his eyes as Porthos’ thumbs brushed over his cheekbones. “ _Porthos_ ,” he breathed, sinking further.

“I’m with you, Ar,” Porthos swore. “An’ d’Artagnan’s with us this time, too. We’ll-- well. This ain’t somethin’ to _get through_ , is it? I don’t wanna say we’ll get through it. We’ll figure it out. All of us. Together. An’ look-- pup’s made you wine.”

For he had; while Porthos had been soothing Aramis, d’Artagnan had been heating up some spiced wine for him. Aramis’ eyes cracked open, and he sat back and accepted the cup. After a long moment of holding its warmth to his chest he took a drink, and seemed to calm a little. Porthos and d’Artagnan both pulled up chairs to sit beside him.

“Do you wanna try to tell us?” Porthos prompted, gently.

Aramis nodded, staring unblinkingly into his cup of wine as the barest shine of tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. Then he raised the wine and downed it in one go.

“He doesn’t need me anymore,” he murmured, at last. “My little boy. My little _son_ , Porthos. He doesn’t-- _need_ me--” Aramis’ voice cracked, and he hid his eyes behind a hand. “Oh my God, he doesn’t--”

“I do.”

Three heads whipped up to see Athos standing in the threshold of the sitting room and kitchen; his eyes were droopy but the flush of fever was gone from his complexion.

“Of course I need you, Aramis,” Athos repeated, gently. “You-- all of you-- make me a better man.”

“You didn’t need to be a _better man_ ,” Aramis replied, schooling the pain in his expression. “Only-- we were hoping to make you-- perhaps just a bit of a happier one?”

Athos came over and knelt at Aramis’ side. “Beyond any doubt,” he murmured, resting a hand on Aramis’ knee. “You do. I am.”

“Are you?”

“The last few days haven’t been easy,” Athos admitted. “But they haven’t been easy for you either.”

“I’m--”

“Fine? No. Three times God has given you a child, and three times taken it. To say it is cruel does not seem sufficient, and I am sorry for my part in it.”

“What part?” Aramis scoffed. “This wasn’t your doing.”

“No,” Athos agreed. “It was not my actions that hurt you. But if you worry so much about my feelings, and don’t allow yourself to miss Olivier-- that will hurt you as well. And that _would_ be my fault.”

The anguish that Aramis had tried to hide from Athos washed back over him like a rainstorm; his chin began to buckle, head drooping like a wilting sunflower.

“I wouldn’t have made this choice, to return,” Athos told him, gently. “I wouldn’t have chosen to remember every moment from my first life as Athos. But do you know? For every moment of sadness or loneliness I remember, I remember-- a moment of you pushing me on the swing. Praying over me. Caring for me when I was ill. I remember Porthos teaching me history. Riding horses with me. Scaring away the monsters under my bed. I remember Uncle Gustave’s house, and I remember the day d’Artagnan came to stay with us. I remember my first childhood, and I know that I was miserable. But I have this too-- I have memories of being cared for, when I was too young to give anything back. It means the world to me.

“Aramis, you were the best father I could have asked for. You all were-- you all are-- the best family I could have asked for.” Then Athos smiled. “It’s all right, come here.”

And Athos drew Aramis close and held him tightly as the sound of heartbroken weeping rose up through the silence. D’Artagnan felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back to meet Porthos’ eyes, and as one they decided to make an exit; Aramis and Athos needed this moment to themselves.

*

A while later Aramis and Athos joined them on the hill. Aramis’ face was swollen and blotchy, nose red, expression sheepish; Athos guided him with an arm around his shoulders.

“Awright?” Porthos prompted, coming to his side. Aramis nodded, then tipped into Porthos’ arms as soon as he opened them; he buried his face in Porthos’ neck and stayed there a long while. Then d’Artagnan took his turn. He embraced Aramis while Porthos hugged Athos, and finally it seemed only natural that the four of them should come together in a circular embrace, each with two brothers’ arms around his shoulders and facing the third; they stood together this way a long moment.

“Shit,” Aramis huffed at last, sounding stuffy-nosed but calm. “Nobody’s milked Madame Angel.”

“All that’s happened in the last two years and I don’t remember ever letting it get this late before,” d’Artagnan remarked.

“She’ll be pissed,” Porthos sighed. “Life on a farm.”

“It’s a distillery,” Athos corrected, and Porthos laughed. With one last squeeze, the four of them broke apart.

“Oh no,” Aramis clucked, when Athos turned to follow Porthos to the barn. “Does _raging fever less than a day ago_ mean nothing to you? All of our sentimentality has kept you out of bed long enough. You’re going to eat some eggs and then take a nap.”

“I feel much better--”

Aramis jabbed a finger in Athos’ belly. “Don’t even try! You breathe through your mouth when you’re not feeling well! Even if you aren’t congested! You always have and you still do now!”

Athos and d’Artagnan both gaped at him a moment. Then Athos rubbed his eyes, smiled, and muttered, “ _some eggs and a nap_ sounds nice, I suppose.”

Aramis smiled warmly and pressed a kiss to his brow. “You’ll feel better in no time, _querido_. Let’s get you back now.”

*

In the end, Athos was under the weather for the rest of April and the first days of May. His fever did not return, thankfully. But such a dramatic change in his body was not easy; he was often tired or shaky, and he was always, _always_ hungry. His coordination suffered as well. It was uncharacteristic-- and a little upsetting-- how often he stumbled over himself now.

But despite this he was generally cheerful. He spent hours at a time lying on the hill, or in the grass beside d’Artagnan’s garden, fondly watching the three of them, or napping peacefully.

And he had begun to draw again. He was more secretive about it now, at least he must have been, for when he presented d’Artagnan with a piece of paper on the second anniversary of his arrival, not one of them had expected it.

Nor did they expect the sheer quality of the drawing. Nuage-- now d’Artagnan’s horse as much as she was Porthos’-- was depicted in full color, as flawless as the preliminary sketch of a master painter. If Olivier had been a talented young artist, Athos was amazing. The three of them stared openly as they processed this, and Athos turned his head aside and blushed.

The next day, after supper, Porthos disappeared into his room abruptly. He returned a moment later, arms full of his cloak; he laid it down besides Athos and gestured for him to open it.

“Eh, your birthday things,” he murmured. “Bit late, I suppose.”

“I forgot all about those,” Aramis breathed, watching as Athos opened the cloak to find a few boxes of candy, a new book, and a plain wooden box.

“Open the box,” Porthos urged, and d’Artagnan laughed, saying, “he’s excited because it was his idea.”

Athos opened the box; inside were a set of paintbrushes, a set of pigment tins, a vial of oil, and a palette. His eyes flew wide open.

D’Artagnan chuckled, glancing around to see Porthos and Aramis likewise appreciating Athos’ reaction; pigments were not cheap, not even with a harvest as good as last year’s had been, but it had been worth every coin.

“Not sayin’ you should stop drawin’,” Porthos added, when Athos seemed able to process words again. “Just thought you might like t’try somethin’ different.”

Athos nodded. “It’s wonderful,” he breathed, a little hoarsely. “Thank you all. Very much.”

“I’ll tell you a different something you need now,” Porthos remarked. “ _Shavin’ kit_. That’s for Christmas.”

“That had better be before Christmas, I think,” d’Artagnan replied, for Athos’ beard had had nearly a month to grow now, and had done so freely.

Athos responded to none of this. Instead he was examining the pigments delicately, almost reverently. “Did you say something?” he prompted, a few minutes later.

“Yeah. Your beard’s enormous,” Porthos chuckled.

“I suppose I’d forgotten,” Athos admitted. “It does keep my face warm, though.”

Later that night, d’Artagnan decided to bring Athos another late birthday present-- this one meant for him, and not Olivier.

He’d gone searching through his musketeer trunk, days ago. Tucked away at the bottom he’d located a small bundle of papers-- letters he’d written to Athos during the war, letters he’d never expected another soul to read-- and as he’d gone back over them he let himself be overwhelmed by how horribly, how _unbearably_ he’d missed Athos.

 _My dear Athos_ , they all began.

 _It isn’t looking good_ , one admitted _. If you were here I know you’d have something to say. Even just the sight of your face would do wonders for me._

 _It hasn’t stopped raining for days_ , another went, and the script told of how unsteady his freezing fingers had been while writing. _I haven’t slept in just as long. I miss you._

They were maudlin things, by all accounts, never meant for sharing. But after debating with himself for a long while, d’Artagnan gathered up the pile and took them down the hall to Athos’ room.

It was late, and Athos was already in bed, though not sleeping. He fixed d’Artagnan with a quizzical, though not unwelcoming look as d’Artagnan lifted one corner of the blankets and settled in beside him.

“I brought you these,” was all he could say.

Athos sat up and set d’Artagnan’s candle on his night table, and together they read through the letters in silence; by the end of the second there were tears in d’Artagnan’s eyes, and by the fifth he was crying quietly against Athos’ shoulder. Athos himself did not pause until he’d read all seven. Then, setting the letters carefully at the foot of the bed, he turned to d’Artagnan and took him into his arms.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” d’Artagnan burst out, falling against him. “If I could go back, and tell m-myself I would, I think the whole war would have been easier to m-manage--”

“ _Shh_ ,” Athos soothed, stroking through d’Artagnan’s hair. “It’s all right, it’s all right, d’Artagnan.”

“I know it is,” d’Artagnan choked. “It’s wonderful. You have no idea how much you m-mean to me, Athos. To any of us. You m-mean the fucking _world_.”

And then, with a shudder, Athos began to weep as well. They clung to one another, faces in each other’s necks, fingers in each other’s hair, bawling like little children. Like long lost brothers, reunited a decade hence.

At length d’Artagnan hauled himself away with a few drippy, undignified noises; he mopped his face on his sleeve, then reached over and did Athos’ too. They smiled shyly at one another.

“Do you, eh-- do you want to--?” d’Artagnan asked, and gestured to the letters.

Athos’ hand pounced upon them like a fox onto its prey. “Take them on pain of death,” he hissed, and d’Artagnan gave out a bark of soggy laughter. “They are my letters, after all.”

“Fair enough,” d’Artagnan agreed. Athos grinned, suddenly much milder, and swiped a sleeve under his nose.

“Well. I guess I’ll let you get to bed then,” d’Artagnan sighed. He’d gotten precisely one foot out from under the blankets when Athos leant over and blew the candle out.

“Don’t be obtuse,” he sniffed, and then came the sound of a hand patting the bed.

D’Artagnan laughed again, into the darkness, and crawled back under, settling down comfortably with Athos’ arm around his waist (and Athos’ chilly bare feet stuck primly between his own).

And as he drifted off, d’Artagnan realized: he felt better. Felt better in that strange way of feeling all at once happy without knowing that he hadn’t been. He missed Olivier, of course he did. But Athos was back-- his _big brother_ was _back_ \-- and there was simply no denying how wonderful that felt.

*

The next day, they decided to venture into down. In addition to Athos’ need for a shaving kit, he and Aramis had been sharing clothes, and both seemed a little tired of it. It was not unheard of for Athos, though more sure-footed now, to stumble over his trousers hems. Neither was it an uncommon occurrence for Aramis to stomp around looking for the shirt that Athos was already wearing-- and though these mishaps delighted Porthos and d’Artagnan, they did not delight their victims.

A trip to town was in order. Athos, who had not even gone to Mass in a month, seemed eager to venture out-- but nervous when at last they reached the horse enclosure. “What’s everyone going to say?” he mused. “When they see me around instead of Olivier?”

“I’ve planted that seed already,” Aramis assured him. “Been saying he’s gone to be an artist’s apprentice.”

“And me?”

“Another stray from their musketeer days,” d’Artagnan teased.

“Exactly,” Aramis replied. “We’re just four old soldiers looking for some peace and quiet.”

Porthos snorted. “‘cept durin’ harvest.”

“Mm. Am I still on jam detail?” Athos wondered. “Or is my newly improved reach going to force me to stay in the orchard?”

“Porthos was always on jam detail,” Aramis replied thoughtfully. “And his are the longest arms of all.”

Porthos shrugged, in the manner of somebody who’d gotten away with something. The four of them mounted and set off.

It showed Athos’ nerves, d’Artagnan thought as they rode, how quickly he’d changed the topic. He wasn’t usually one to do so. He was aware, then-- and how could he not be?-- of how gossipy, how intrusive some of their neighbors could be, and coupled with his own still-adjusting sense of self, d’Artagnan knew that this simple trip into town was something of a test in his mind.

But it was a test they all passed. Two or three people asked after Ollie, and the shoemaker wanted a lengthier introduction on Athos himself than they had prepared. But in the end the world went about its own business. They purchased the necessary clothes for Athos, as well as boots, a shaving kit, and some baked goods to treat themselves with, then loaded it all into the saddlebags and returned.

Nothing had gone badly. And yet Athos was silent on the ride home, stroking Miel’s mane thoughtfully, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. More telling still, he wobbled a little on the dismount, once home. D’Artagnan shared a look with Porthos, who then shared one with Aramis, but nobody commented just yet. When Athos did not look up, though, Porthos stepped forward.

“How’re you doin’?” he prompted. Athos said nothing. D’Artagnan went to stand beside them, mussing Athos’ hair; Aramis slung an arm around Athos’ shoulders. “Just still sortin’ through it all?” Porthos suggested

Athos nodded gratefully as Aramis wrapped both arms around him and buried his face in Athos’ hair. “That’s the most excitement you’ve had in a month,” Aramis mused. “You’ve tired yourself out, I think. Let’s have that cake we got from Monsieur Larue and we’ll call it an early night.”

“All right,” Athos mumbled, into Aramis’ chest.

“And first thing tomorrow you’re trimming that bird’s nest under your nose,” Aramis added, fondly. Athos emerged then, with a sleepy smile.

Porthos and d’Artagnan saw to the horses as Aramis and Athos returned to the main house; once this was done, and the saddlebags unloaded, they lingered still, petting Nuage.

“You think he’s all right?” Porthos murmured, voice low, after they’d done this a while, in silence.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan replied, without hesitation. “I honestly do, Porthos. Name me one time back in Paris that he would’ve told us he was feeling off, and then let us all hug him. Y’know? He’s all right. Don’t you think so too?”

Porthos smiled. “Yeah. Guess I just wanted t’hear somebody else say it.”

*

And Athos really was, in the end; so were Porthos, and d’Artagnan. There were moments, still, of uncertainty or of loss, but they were all, in broad terms, all right.

Aramis was not. Aramis’ heart was, quite simply, broken.

He put up a brave front, yes, smiling and laughing, and seeing to the others, but in moments of silence, in lulls between the movements of the world, Aramis could be found staring at the fire or the horizon or the soup slowly cooling in his bowl, wondering where his little son had got to this time. Some days he took Brandy out and rode, alone, for hours. His rosary, never far from his hand in any case, was a permanent fixture around his wrist-- but he did not seem to pray it so much as to roll the beads about between his fingertips. Some mornings it was clear that he’d cried all night.

But Aramis did not begrudge Athos his return-- nor did Athos begrudge Aramis his sadness. In fact they seemed closer than ever. Hardly a day passed in which they did not spend at least a little while curled up on a bench, heads tipped together, fingers grasping at one another’s shirtfronts.

It helped too that Athos still let Aramis look after him. He humored Aramis’ nearly compulsive tendencies to rub his back or stroke his hair, as well as his frequent desire to ply him with tea or froth, or doses of herbs. Besides this Athos admitted to Aramis without hesitation whenever he was feeling gloomy, or under the weather. He needed this too, d’Artagnan knew, not as badly as Aramis but badly enough that there was no farce to it, no mere indulgence.

Athos’ return had broken Aramis’ heart. Despite this, or perhaps because of the strange circumstances of it, Athos was the best suited of all of them to comfort Aramis, to see him through it.

Still, naturally, Porthos and d’Artagnan did their best to tend to Aramis as well. Porthos’ methods were as direct as ever; he grabbed Aramis up in massive bear hugs at every possibly opportunity, holding him warmly against his chest until at last Aramis would collapse against him.

D’Artagnan himself favored a quieter approach. Aramis did not sleep well, rising often at two or three in the morning and leaving his room quietly; d’Artagnan, in the next room over, grew accustomed to this after just a few nights. Before long he began to join him. Aramis typically preferred to sit in the kitchen, although sometimes it was the sitting room and sometimes the bench outside. Wherever he was, d’Artagnan heated him a cup of spiced wine and brought it to him. He did not speak, and did not force Aramis to-- only sat with him, touching a hand to his back now and then, and let Aramis feel whatever things he needed to.

Still he knew that feelings were not all of it. Aramis’ grief was not just a _feeling_ ; the loss of his son was a part of him now, under his skin, inside of his bones. He would not wake up one morning and find it had ended. But d’Artagnan himself knew pain like this-- they all did, really-- and even though it would not end, it would not be the end of Aramis, either. The war had not ended _him_ , after all.

And, all things considered, the distillery seemed a good place to be for those who had such hurts. What better place than a sunny haven of pumpkins and plum trees? What better place than a cozy little house, on a hill overlooking those trees, surrounded by his family? Aramis would heal as well, d’Artagnan was sure.

*

As it tended to, the world carried on; before they knew it, harvest was looming, with Porthos’ birthday coming just a few days ahead. The bustle suited Aramis. As d’Artagnan expected, he came back to them by bits and pieces, and with no warning at all he cornered Athos and d’Artagnan and reviewed with them his plans for the birthday dinner he wanted to prepare. Delighted by his enthusiasm, eager to assist, they did just as they were ordered. Porthos, playing along as always, feigned ignorance involving the entire matter, until the afternoon of his birthday, when Aramis steered him into the kitchen with a satisfied smile.

Porthos wasted no time in whirling around and hugging him half to death. The feast he’d prepared was spectacular, and they were all immensely eager to get at it; what’s more, this was the happiest they’d seen Aramis in over a month-- and it was a beautiful sight.

They stuffed themselves silly, laughing all the while. Porthos admired his presents while the others looked on and offered lazy commentary, then just when they thought they might be able to eat again sometime next week, Aramis brought out the cake. Everybody groaned, but nobody turned it away.

“I’ve always loved your birthday,” Athos mused, pressing the tines of his fork about to gather the last crumbs from his plate.

“Thanks, Ath. Chose it meself, y’know.”

Athos smiled. “I mean, it falls at the perfect time. Just before harvest starts. It feels like catching your breath before you take off running.”

This year it felt like breath being caught _after_ a long run, as well, d’Artagnan thought. A lovely little pause, and just what they needed.

“Speaking of,” Aramis replied, looking pensive. “I know it’s a few days before we usually begin, but I think the first trees will be ready tomorrow. At least enough for us to enjoy the first few.”

“Coulda told me that before supper,” Porthos teased, and Aramis smiled in response. “All right, then, if that’s how it is, I need t’digest an’ sober up. Who’s for a walk?”

They all were, of course, though nobody wanted to walk far. They got to the start of the horse trail before food and brandy and heat proved too much for everyone, and they shuffled back to the hill over the orchard and stretched out in the grass: d’Artagnan besides Porthos besides Athos besides Aramis.

“Early start means an early finish,” Porthos breathed, after they’d lain for a while in the damp July twilight. “Who knows, Ar, you might even be able to celebrate your own birthday properly this year.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Aramis promised. “I’m a distiller’s son born in the middle of harvest. My mother practically birthed me in the orchard. I’m used to playing second fiddle.”

“Suppose we’ve got _two_ more comin’ up now, yeah?” Porthos mused. “Three a’us in a row-- July, August, September. You’re the odd man out, pup.”

“Actually, I-- I thought I might continue to celebrate in April.” Athos’ voice was quiet. “If it-- wouldn’t be too upsetting?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes were to the sky, but there was a small shuffling noise to his right, and he very much suspected that Aramis had rolled atop Athos in some fashion or another. “Why would it be upsetting?” he prompted. “You’re right here.”

“And then I wouldn’t be the odd man out, anymore,” d’Artagnan noted.

“Why did you say that, Porthos?” Aramis sighed. “You know he has a complex about that.”

“ _Still_?”

Rather than reply, d’Artagnan rolled atop Porthos in turn.

“The children are gettin’ a bit big for this,” Porthos grouched, in response.

“I’m underneath,” Athos pointed out.

“The grown-arse men are gettin’ a bit big for this.”

D’Artagnan only patted Porthos’ belly.

Porthos sighed. “Did you _see_ what we all just ate? If you think your stomach’s flat right now, I’d like t’see it.”

D’Artagnan and Aramis giggled, then a comfortable silence descended, and lingered a while. It was broken by a quiet snore.

“Aramis,” Athos murmured. Then again, a bit louder, “ _Aramis_!”

“Wha’?”

“Bed,” Athos ordered, “and not on me, if you please.”

“Mm. Y’re comfy.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Porthos grumbled, and d’Artagnan whined out an indignant “hey!” as he was pushed off his chest. Porthos helped him to his feet. “Let’s go. The lot a’you. Got some plums t’pick in the mornin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I was planning on posting this tomorrow morning before work, but decided to post it now so that I did not end up rushing through the notes. Of course, now that I'm actually writing the notes, I feel a little stumped. This is by far the longest story I've ever written and, excuse the moment of immodesty, I am absolutely going to pat myself on the back for that. 75k-- never saw that coming :) I'm a little disoriented, actually, to think that I'm posting the final words of it now. I want to say thank you, thank you, THANK YOU, to all of you who read, kudos'd, and commented, especially those of you (and you know who you are) who commented regularly. Truly, some of you have made my whole day on multiple occasions. And for those of you hoping for more in this universe, I can say with near-perfect certainty that it will happen, although I admit that nothing is quite close to posting at the moment. In any case I can sense that I'm rambling, so I suppose I'll get on with posting this thing, and pause just once more to say a big loud THANK you to all of you who have read _Honest Songs_.


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